


I'm A Peasant In Your Princess Arms

by LayALioness



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones, Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, bellamy is howl, clarke is sophie, jasper is michael, lexa is the dog, thats all u need to know, wick is calcifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wizard Belldragon was supposedly an immortal, beautiful man, who lived in a moving castle made of charcoal, and wooed young maids to steal their souls. Or eat their hearts, depending on who was telling the story. But each version maintains he’s ageless, gorgeous, and incredibly powerful.</p><p>Clarke thinks most of the rumors are probably untrue, or at least unfounded. She finds it hard to believe the King would let a heart-eating Wizard hunker down in the heart of Arcadia. Then again, Jaha is incredibly distracted at the moment, so perhaps.</p><p>Still, even she knows that if there’s anyone likely to break the curse on her, it’s a Wizard, and the fact that she’s currently at one’s backdoor seems a little too convenient to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm A Peasant In Your Princess Arms

**Author's Note:**

> I have slaved over this fic for days and am still trying to convince myself it is not trash and I did not waste valuable time on it.
> 
> This mostly pulls from the book, but some bits are from the movie. If you haven't read/seen them, you should still understand this fic, but also you should just go read/watch Howl's Moving Castle because it is a goddamn masterpiece.
> 
> Title from The Golden Floor by Snow Patrol, which I played on repeat while writing this.

When Clarke is cursed by the Witch, she isn’t particularly upset by it.

“Well,” she says to her reflection, “At least now you look like you feel.” She rubs at the wrinkles on her face, absently—it all feels a little surreal, to be honest. She fingers at her gray hair, still thick and full enough. “At least I’m still healthy,” she decides, and then she chooses the most expensive tea leaves in her mother’s herb shop, and makes herself a cup.

The Witch had said she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone she’s bespelled, and Clarke knows better than to doubt that sort of thing, so she writes her mother a note, and then one for each of her sisters, and packs a suitcase then heads for the train.

She’s not sure where she should go, who she should turn for in this sort of situation. She doesn’t have many connections; her father had been the Royal Architect, when still alive, but now the King has a new one, and anyway he’s out of town on some sort of kingly business. His son has recently gone missing, so the country is in a kind of mild panic, and there’s always the threat of war from the neighboring Grounders territory, and the men of the Mount Weather. All in all, Arcadia is a rather busy country at the moment, so Clarke hardly thinks her own measly curse merits much concern.

If anything, being turned into an elderly woman is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to Clarke, which says more than a few things about her life up until now. It’s certainly the most _interesting_ thing to ever happen to her. She’d been ready to resign herself to a life of herb collecting and medicine making, and inheriting her mother’s shop when she died. As the eldest of three, she knew it was probably the best she’d end up with, and it wouldn’t be a _bad_ life, but.

She’d always wanted a little bit _more_ , something bigger, more meaningful. She should have known better; everyone knows to be careful what they wish for. Wishes must be carefully thought out, preferably penned down with appropriate footnotes and delicate wording, and signed at the bottom. Otherwise, the universe is bound to find a loophole and make a mess of things.

Clarke really does mean to go to the train station, and is in fact on her way when a man appears suddenly, gripping her waist and swinging them both around in the opposite direction.

“Don’t seem surprised,” he says under his breath, staring straight ahead. He’s a very tall man, and Clarke has to tip her head all the way back to look up at him in shock.

“What are you doing,” she hisses, doing her best to seem nonchalant about the stranger’s hand, warm on her hip—but she’s never been touched by a man like this, especially one she doesn’t know, and she’s fairly sure it’s obvious.

The man smirks—so it’s _definitely_ obvious, then. “Running from the guard,” he says smoothly. “By helping my grandmother home,” and all at once Clarke remembers.

She needn’t feel afraid; she’s not some young girl being taken advantage of. She’s an old woman now.

“Well that’s enough of that, young man,” she declares, stiffly shaking off his hand. The man turns a raised brow on her, but says nothing else, instead moving to curl her arm in his, which is only a little more acceptable.

He walks her for two more blocks, before ducking into an alley, and she groans at the sudden movement leaving an ache in her knees.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, patting her shoulder, and her knees feel much better. “And thanks; I owe you,” he grins boyishly, and if Clarke were still a young girl, she might have been charmed. But as it is, she’s nearing seventy, and so she just scowls back at him.

“Aren’t you a little old to be snatching unsuspecting passersby off the street?” she glares, but he just smiles pleasantly.

“I’m young at heart,” he assures her, before tipping his hat and dissolving into the shadows.

Clarke stares at the space he’d just occupied, unimpressed. These sorts of things are fairly common in Arcadia; a mere act of disappearance is no real feat. She huffs, still a little ruffled from it all.

“Two strange meetings in a single day,” she muses. “Why did I ever wish for more excitement?” She glances about, trying to gather her bearings. Mostly, her knowledge of the city extends to the path between the shop and her apartment, so she’s pretty sure she’s never been in this area. It’s nearing sundown, and there’s a chill in the air, so she draws her shawl a little tighter over her shoulders.

The building just behind her seems to be a little set off from its neighboring homes and storefronts, with walls made of something other than the usual stone masonry. Clarke reaches out to graze her fingers against it, and they come away coated in coal dust, and she instantly knows where she is.

The Wizard Belldragon arrived the same week as the Witch, the same week as Prince Wells’ mysterious disappearance.

“Obviously, they both had something to do with it,” Monroe, the middle sister, had decided. “They’re probably together, and did away with the prince. They probably ate his heart.”

“Why would they eat the prince’s heart?” Maya, the youngest, had asked. Monroe had shrugged.

“It’s what they do,” she’d explained. “Witches and Wizards. Although usually they go for young, pretty girls.” She’d grinned cheekily. “Don’t worry—you’ll both be safe.”

The Wizard Belldragon is supposedly an immortal, beautiful man, who lives in a moving castle made of charcoal, and woos young maids to steal their souls. Or eat their hearts, depending on who's telling the story. But each version maintains he’s ageless, gorgeous, and incredibly powerful.

Clarke thinks most of the rumors are probably untrue, or at least unfounded. She finds it hard to believe the King would let a heart-eating Wizard hunker down in the heart of Arcadia. Then again, Jaha is incredibly distracted at the moment, so perhaps.

Still, even she knows that if there’s anyone likely to break the curse on her, it’s a Wizard, and the fact that she’s currently at one’s backdoor seems a little too convenient to ignore.

She knocks a little, and softly, before just stepping inside. It’s unlocked, as she thought it might be, because why should a Wizard keep his home locked? He’s a _Wizard_ , and apparently the house itself moves anyway, so. She imagines it’s a fairly effective security system.

The front room is mostly dark, with the remnants of a fire burning in the hearth some feet away. It’s remarkably filthy, with cobwebs and thick layers of dust all over, and she’d assume no one actually lives here, but there are cleared spaces on two of the chairs, and a section of the table, so she knows someone must.

Most of the space is taken up by towers of books, some old and well read through, and some new and intact. Clarke likes books herself, but the collection sprawled around her seems a little excessive. She’d think a Wizard would know some sort of cleaning spell, but she doesn’t actually know that much about magic—not like Monroe, who’s been secretly studying spell work since they were girls. She thinks no one knows, which is adorable. Monroe is probably the world’s worse secret keeper. Maya, most likely, is second.

Clarke carefully steps through the maze of books and trinkets and spider webs, up to the hearth. She’s still fairly chilly from the air outside, so she stretches her hands towards the flames.

“Who let you in here?”

Clarke turns to find a boy standing on the stairs, watching her warily. He’s gripping a broom, like some sort of weapon, and he can’t be much older than Maya, with pale skin, dark unruly hair and a skinny nose that ends in a point. He frowns down at Clarke.

She looks up at him, still fairly disinterested. Mostly she just wants to rest her feet by the fire—being old is difficult work, and she’s tired. “I did,” she shrugs, looking around for a chair.

The boy seems to know what she’s thinking, because he pads down the stairs and across the room, fetching a stool with a slightly bend back. He drags it over to the hearth and steps back so she can sit down. She smiles up at him fondly, and decides he’s probably nice.

“What’s your name?” she asks. She doesn’t actually care—old age has made her apathetic, it seems—but it seems polite to at least ask.

“Jasper,” he says, still frowning, but only a little this time. There are goggles hung around his neck, though he’s wearing pajamas. She wonders if that’s the sort of fashion Wizards wear. It doesn’t _seem_ particularly wizardly, but. What does she know about Wizards?

“I’m Clarke,” Clarke says. It probably isn’t necessary to use an alias; who would recognize her in this form? And anyway, it’s not like she’s particularly well-known or anything. “Old Clarke,” she clarifies, just in case.

Jasper nods agreeably. “What are you doing here?” he asks curiously. He’s clearly bothered by her presence, but isn’t sure what to do about it. She pretends to ignore his apprehension.

“Seeking a Wizard,” she says. “I’m told one lives here. Belldragon.”

“I’m Wizard Belldragon’s apprentice,” Jasper says, clearly proud of the fact. Clarke tries desperately not to be charmed, but it’s a little difficult. Jasper is a wiry boy, still a little awkward around the edges, and entirely helpless. She likes him pretty much instantly. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I’m afraid only a Wizard will do,” Clarke decides, and it’s probably true. Mostly she just wants to fall asleep by the fire.

“You’ll have to wait all night,” Jasper says slowly, and it’s pretty clear he’s hoping she’ll take that as a cue to leave and come back in the morning.

Clarke waves a hand. “That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll just rest my eyes a bit.” And the rest of her, she thinks, and then falls asleep warm and comfortable.

When she wakes the first time, it’s still dark out, and the house is quiet. Jasper has disappeared, probably back up the stairs, and the fire burns lowly before her. She stares at the flames for a moment—mostly blue at this point, which seems strange, but it is a Wizard’s fire, so—before a pair of eyes spring out to stare back at her.

At this point, Clarke’s pretty sure the face she’s seeing is just a symptom of exhaustion, and maybe shock. But then it speaks.

“That’s quite the spell you’re under,” the fire says, sounding nothing like what she imagines a fire should. “Smells like one of the Witch’s.”

“It is,” Clarke agrees, pleased to finally be able to speak of it. After all, the fire guessed all on its own, so she hasn’t broken the clause or anything. “You’re quite the clever fire,” she remarks, and it glows orange with pride.

“Fire demon,” it corrects. “I’m Kyle, but everyone calls me Wick.”

“Wick?” she asks. It doesn’t seem an appropriate name for a demon, but Kyle is even worse.

Kyle-Wick rolls his eyes dramatically. “Bellamy thought it was clever,” he says.

“Bellamy?” Clarke’s mind is still foggy with sleep, and her memory has been aged by several decades.

“The Wizard,” he clarifies. “Belldragon. Bellamy. I call him Bell, mostly to make him angry.”

“Does it work?” she asks mildly. She’d never really thought what a conversation with a demon might be like, but this would not have been it.

“Oh yes,” he says happily. “Really gets him going.”

“How did you know about my spell?” Clarke asks as everything finally comes into focus.

“It’s obvious,” the fire says. “I could break it, you know.”

It sounds like the sort of thing a salesman might say, and Clarke eyes the flames suspiciously. “At what cost?” she wonders.

The fire smiles at her. “You’re quite the clever old woman,” he says fondly. “Your heart.” Clarke can’t tell if he’s serious, and he continues. “A contract,” he decides. “You break my curse, I break yours. Deal?”

“That depends entirely on what your curse is,” Clarke decides. She’s learned her lesson about careless wording; she won’t be agreeing to anything too hastily. The fire demon is very likable, but he’s still a demon.

“Belldragon has me under contract,” he admits. “I can never leave this hearth; I’m forced to move the house, heat his water, cook his food—I’m being exploited. Bell’s a bully,” he pouts sadly. Clarke isn’t convinced.

“Then why did you enter the contract?” she asks.

“He promised to introduce me to someone,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I’d known what the deal would entail.”

Clarke is a little moved by the demon’s troubles, and she really does want her curse broken, so she nods. “Alright,” she decides. “You break mine, I break yours. Tell me how.”

“I can’t,” the fire confesses. “That’s part of the spell; neither of us can tell anyone else what the clause is.”

“Well then how am I supposed to help you?” Clarke huffs—she’s pretty done with the whole carefully worded curses thing. She’s pretty done with magic in general, to be honest.

“Whoa slow down, you’ll break a hip,” the fire chides. “You just have to watch and listen, and you’ll understand it soon enough. I’ll have to do the same for yours; the Witch has strong magic, and your spell’s a tricky one. But we’ll get there eventually.” If fires could shrug, Clarke’s sure this one would.

“I suppose,” she decides, leaning back in her stool. She’s only gotten a few hours of sleep, and she’s still very tired. “Wake me when your Wizard arrives,” she orders sleepily.

“I’ll set your dress on fire,” the demon agrees.

“I’ll pour cold water on your coals,” Clarke shoots back, and falls asleep.

The second time she wakes, it’s to the sound of the door clicking open. While she’d slept, the demon had stretched out towards her feet to soothe them with the heat, and she gives him a fond smile, stretching her back. She’s decided being an old woman isn’t entirely unpleasant, but she could definitely do without the constant aches.

The door has been opened by Jasper, who flushes thoroughly when he finds Clarke staring at him. He’s trying unsuccessfully to hide a box behind his back. It’s a pastry box, made of flimsy carding; white with pink trimming. She recognizes the pattern immediately.

“That’s from Wallace’s,” Clarke declares. “My sister is an apprentice there.”

“Your _sister’s_ an apprentice?” Jasper asks, surprised. Clarke instantly realizes her mistake—no one her age would still be in an apprenticeship. She frowns at herself.

“We have quite the age difference,” she says lamely. Behind her, the demon coughs, probably to cover a laugh. She takes back all her nice thoughts of him—she’ll definitely pour water on his coals.

“What’s her name?” Jasper asks. “Maybe I know her—I go there a lot.”

Clarke bites her lip, debating. Monroe is incredibly beautiful; everyone says so, and their mother is sort of depending on that, on her meeting a young rich man who will fall for her instantly so she’ll be set for life.

Monroe hasn’t yet told their mother she prefers the attention of women, and detests marriage, and plans on becoming disgustingly rich all on her own. Clarke isn’t sure Monroe will _ever_ tell their mother; Monroe has a flair for the dramatic. She’s just as likely to elope with some poor, pretty Grounders girl and live in the forest, sending Clarke and Maya cryptic letters every few weeks.

As said, Monroe is very beautiful, and easy to remember. If Jasper frequents the bakery, there’s pretty much no chance he hasn’t seen her, and fallen a little bit in love. Everyone falls in love with Monroe, it’s basically inevitable. Sometimes she’s flattered, and often uses it to her advantage, but mostly she thinks it’s a hassle.

There would be no real harm in telling Jasper that her sister is Monroe—but he might be intrigued enough to ask around, and discover Clarke is not actually an elderly woman but the young clerk in a medicinal shop. She’s not sure yet if she wants him to know so much about who she is; so far, the grandmother thing has worked well for her.

“She works mostly in the back,” Clarke decides. “You probably haven’t seen her.” She says it with enough finality that he just shrugs and drops the subject.

“Belldragon should be back any minute,” he says, taking a scone from the box and then leaving it open on the table, in invitation. He really is a nice boy.

“Where’s your kettle?” Clarke asks, rooting through her bag. “I’ve got some good tea that’ll go well with those scones.”

Jasper gives her an apologetic frown. “Belldragon’s the only one that can cook,” he explains. Clarke looks at him, confused.

“Who said anything about cooking?” she asks. “It’s just heated water, I’m sure I can manage.”

Jasper shakes his head, glancing at the demon. “No, you don’t understand—Belldragon’s the only one Wick will listen to.”

Clarke glances back at the demon, who’s looking rather smug. “I refuse to be exploited,” he declares.

Clarke huffs. “You’re already being exploited,” she argues. “At least let the boy have a hot drink.”

“No,” Wick says. Clarke fills the kettle anyway, and brings it over to him.

“I _will_ pour this on your head,” she warns. “Or maybe I’ll just tell Belldragon about our little deal.”

Wick flickers a little, annoyed. “May this water burn your tongue,” he curses, but then lowers his head so she can put the kettle down.

It’s just beginning to boil when Belldragon walks through the door. “Jasper?” he calls. “Is that boiling water I hear?”

Jasper’s been staring at Clarke in awe for the last several minutes, and is still wide-eyed when he turns to his master. “Clarke talked Wick into heating the kettle,” he says, delighted.

“That’s no easy thing,” Belldragon muses, turning to his fire demon. “Wick, you’re being strangely cooperative.”

“She bullied me,” Wick snaps.

“That’s even harder,” Belldragon says, finally turning to Clarke. His eyes light up in recognition. “Grandmother,” he says pleasantly, and confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Calling in that debt.” She’s trying not to stare too pointedly—it’s the man that had snatched her off the street the day before, looking a little ragged and worse for wear but no less handsome.

“Ah,” he breathes, crossing over to them, swiping a scone on the way. “What is it I can do for you?”

Clarke thinks back to her conversation with Wick—he said she’ll need to watch and observe, and to do that she’ll need time at the Wizard’s house. “Rent me a room,” she decides. “I’ll work off the pay—I’m a talented medicine woman, and I can do a little housework.”

Belldragon studies her mildly. “You don’t seem the type to be at a loss for places to stay,” he muses, and Clarke frowns.

“I’d really rather not talk about it,” she says hotly. “Some complications arose, and I need a place to stay for the time being. What do you say?”

Belldragon eyes her for a moment longer before giving that grin—she imagines it’s probably the one he uses to steal all those poor girls’ hearts. It’s good she’s so old now, she decides. He’ll have no interest in hers.

“Alright,” he decides. “I’ll have to add one on for you. Jasper!” He turns to his apprentice, who’s already scampering up the stairs.

“On it!” the boy calls back down, and Clarke can hear him scurrying about above them as she pours the tea. She sets a third cup for Belldragon, just in case, and then hands Wick an extra log as recompense. The demon snatches it up grudgingly, tossing it in his flaming jaws.

“I don’t _actually_ hope your tongue burns,” he decides. Belldragon glances down at him, amused.

“You’ve grown soft in my absence,” he accuses. Wick huffs mildly.

“All your bathwater will run cold,” he declares, but Belldragon ignores it.

Jasper reappears seconds later, arms filled with books and pages and feathers and jars of strange ingredients. He sprawls it all out across the cluttered table, and Belldragon carefully sifts through the pile, tossing away what isn’t needed. Clarke watches as a mess of books and jars and dirty dishes accumulates on the floor—it seems she’ll have her work cut out for her.

“Alright,” Belldragon announces, plucking up a piece of chalk. With it, he details some strange pattern right on the wooden tabletop. Clarke doesn’t understand the markings, but she knows it to be magic, and the air in the room thins with it.

“Hold onto your skirts, Grandma,” Belldragon warns wryly. Clarke glares, but then everything in the room begins to slowly lift into the air—including the hem of her dress—and she’s forced to hold them in place.

They only float a few inches, and only for a moment, before suddenly the walls bow out and Wick expands enough to fill up the chimney. The windows snap into nothing, and then new ones burst in their place. The ceiling pushes up, the boards stretching and shrinking and then falling back in line. The floor rattles and shakes, the shelves go crooked, and a few things crash down to the floor, but Belldragon seems indifferent. He’s holding his palm open and face-down over the chalk pattern, now glowing a faint blue. Wick is still filling up the chimney, but Clarke is now firmly on the floor, feeling safe enough to simply watch.

Eventually it ends, and everything seems mostly the same, though a few proportions are off. There’s a little more room between the table and stairs, between the door and the hearth, and there are two windows on the east wall instead of just one, and a new door off to the side that hadn’t been there before.

“Go ahead,” Belldragon nods to the new door, and Clarke hobbles over to it.

It opens up to a small room, only a little larger than a closet, with a curtained bed and small porthole window overlooking the sea. Clarke crosses to it, pressing her face to the glass, bewildered and completely impressed.

“But Arcadia is landlocked,” she breathes, turning back to the Wizard. He’s looking back at her, entirely too smug for her liking.

“It’s real,” he gloats. “Ever seen the ocean before, Grandmother?”

She should, by all rights, be offended by the nickname, but taking offense requires energy, and the day is much too early for that. So she just shakes her head and hobbles back over to the table, nibbling on one of the scones, watching as he frowns and picks out the raisins in his.

“Have you always been a Wizard?” she wonders, not really sure how it works. Maya is apprenticing with Indra, the town witch, but everyone knows there’s a difference between a witch and a Witch, and Clarke’s not totally sure where a Wizard might fall into all that.

“I did my time as an apprentice,” Belldragon says, eyeing Jasper. “I cast my first spell when I was nine years old.”

Jasper’s neck flushes, which Clarke takes to mean he hasn’t cast a spell yet, and she frowns at Belldragon. “I’m sure all magic comes in due time,” she assures Jasper, who only nods and then skulks up to his room. She shoots the Wizard a glare. “There’s no need to be mean about it,” she snaps.

Belldragon raises a brow. “Jasper’s not a child, Clarke,” he says. “He can take care of himself.”

“You still don’t need to be rude,” Clarke sniffs. And then, a little grudgingly, “Thank you for the room. I was expecting to spend most nights in that stool, to be honest.”

“Come now, Grandmother,” Belldragon teases. “I’m not that barbaric.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Clarke shoots back. “I’ve heard you eat hearts.”

Belldragon grins wickedly. “True enough,” he agrees. “Now I do apologize, but it’s been a long night, and I need some rest. And a bath.”

“Of course,” Clarke agrees, waving a hand. “Go. What would you like me to do in the meantime?”

Belldragon makes his way up the stairs, calling, “Start earning your board, Grandmother.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and glances back around the room—it’s in even worse disarray than when she first arrived. She sighs heavily, and starts with the books.

“You don’t _actually_ have to clean, you know,” Wick says mildly, watching as she sweeps the cobwebs from the corners, and scrubs at the soot on the floor. She cleans the chalk from the table.

“I know,” Clarke pants; her lungs are weak in her old age. She’s tied a kerchief around her mouth, to guard from the coal dust, but it still sneaks in around the cloth. “I don’t like to be idle.”

“Why not?” Wick asks. “I love being idle. I’d spend every day being idle if I could.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t free you then,” Clarke muses. Wick makes a face and crackles.

“No take-backs,” he warns darkly. Clarke cackles, then coughs, then cackles some more.

“You could always give me your heart,” Wick muses. “Then I could break your curse in no time at all, and mine.”

“Why are you so concerned with getting my heart?” Clarke wonders mildly. Wick makes a noncommittal gesture.

“Everyone wants another’s heart,” he defends. “Even humans.”

“I don’t,” Clarke argues. “I can hardly keep up with my own."

“Uh,” Jasper says, fidgeting in his spot at the top of the stairs. He’s watching Clarke sweep, suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Major heart surgery,” Clarke deadpans. “I’m cleaning this pigsty of a house; what does it look like?”

Jasper’s eyes grow comically wide. “Save my room for last!” he pleads, dashing back upstairs. Clarke chuckles to herself and fetches the mop.

“For having so many cleaning supplies,” she grouses, “this place is surprisingly filthy.”

“Belldragon’s rather useless,” Wick agrees amiably. “Also very vain—especially for such a plain-looking man, with dirt-colored hair.”

Clarke eyes the demon; Belldragon is many things, but _plain_ -looking is not one of them.

She finishes cleaning the rest of the first floor—the small half-bathroom is by far the _worst_ thing she’s ever experienced—and makes her way up the stairs slowly, scrubbing each crevice along the way. It’s not that she’s even particularly neat, but. She hadn’t realized it was possible to _live_ in this level of grime. She’s just reached the second level, when Jasper crashes out of his room, clutching an old Wallace’s pastry box to his chest desperately.

“Don’t throw anything away,” Jasper says weakly, and Clarke almost feels bad for him.

“No promises,” she says wryly, and he groans before disappearing to what she assumes is a balcony.

Belldragon steps out of the second door and pauses, taking in Clarke’s cleaning-lady look. He looks remarkably put together—hair slicked back and skin clear and brown. He’s wearing a finely tailored blue and silver suit, and nice leather boots. He smirks down at her as he passes her down the stairs. “Don’t get too carried away,” he warns, and then she hears the swift open and close of the front door.

Clarke manages to wait a few moments before slipping into the Wizard’s room, curiosity getting the best of her. The curse seems to have boosted her confidence immensely—even if he catches her, what can he do? She’s nearly seventy years old now, with a bad back and bad knees and ugly hair. Things can’t get much worse for her.

Belldragon’s room is nothing like she’d imagined. For one, it’s relatively organized. There’s a clear path from the door to his four-poster bed, which is made and only a little cluttered with thick books. He keeps books everywhere, it seems, and always in groups. There’s a large skylight set in the ceiling, letting sunlight wash over everything. A few crude paintings of butterflies, as if by a child, hang along one wall, along with the portrait of a pretty girl with dark hair and bright eyes. Clarke wonders if she’s one of the hearts he ate, or someone a little more important.

There’s a collection of rugs overlapping one another across the entire floor, and a few marble busts of ancient deities gathered together in one corner. It’s an interesting room, filled with interesting things, but not at all very wizardly. She feels a little disappointed, but mostly just surprised.

The bathroom, though, is an entirely different story. She’s fairly sure war gas could not be worse than the smell of the toilet. The window is so layered in grime, nearly no light can leak through. Clarke bunches up her shoulders, and prepares for battle.

 _Young folks_ , she thinks, irritated, and then chuckles to herself. She wonders if she’s just always been a perpetual elderly woman. Probably.

She saves Jasper’s room for last, as promised, and is pleased to find it’s the easiest by far. He’s not so tidy as his master, but he has less things, and less room to store them in. She finishes with a few hours left before sundown, and so decides to walk into town.

Clarke doesn’t really mean to end up at Wallace’s, but she finds herself there soon enough, and decides she’s really too old to turn around and run like a coward. She’s not sure she could run, even if she wanted to.

Instead she forces her way inside. Wallace’s is the best bakery in the city, which everyone knows, and so sooner or later everyone ends up there. It’s nearly always packed, to dangerous levels, and it usually takes Clarke nearly ten minutes to force her way to the front counter and flag down her sister.

But she’s starting to learn certain privileges come with old age, as everyone slowly parts to make a path for her to hobble along. She grins a little smugly.

Monroe is at the counter, as usual, chatting with about five eligible bachelors at once. She looks as lovely as usual, if a little taller than when Clarke last saw, and Clarke barely has to even wave before she’s standing before her.

“May I help you?” Monroe asks chirpily, customer service smile wide on her face. She seems happy, and Clarke is glad; she’d worried most for Monroe, who had wanted all the adventure and excitement in the world, and ended up at a bakery.

“Monroe,” Clarke says. “I’m Clarke.” She waits as Monroe blinks at her words.

“What?” she asks finally, face scrunched up in confusion, and even still she is pretty. Clarke sighs.

“I had a run-in with the Witch,” she says, because apparently she’s only not allowed to specify that she was cursed by the Witch, and she’s fairly sure Monroe can put that much together.

Monroe’s eyes grow wide, like Jasper’s, and Clarke knows she’s realized the truth. She frowns, grabs Clarke by her withered wrist, and tugs her into the backroom. They sit among trays of blueberry-lavender muffins and orange meringue scones.

“What on earth _happened_?” Monroe demands.

“I can’t say,” Clarke winces. “That’s part of the problem.”

Monroe frowns. “I got your letter,” she pauses. “I was so angry with you,” she admits shyly. Clarke doesn’t blame her. She’d told her family that she’d needed to take some time away, to get over a sudden illness. In retrospect, that had probably only worried them, and now that she sees Monroe taking the news of her curse so well, Clarke’s wishing she had just told them the truth.

“I’m with the Wizard Belldragon,” Clarke says, because Monroe’s bound to find out eventually, and if she’d heard first from someone who _isn’t_ Clarke, she’d never have forgiven her. “He’s helping me.” It’s a small lie, but she figures mentioning Belldragon will scare Monroe enough—there’s no need to go involving his fire demon.

But to her surprise, Monroe only frowns a little. “Be careful,” she warns, and then hesitates. “I have some news too,” she sighs, and Clarke frowns in worry. A nervous Monroe was never a good thing.

“Please tell me you aren’t eloping with a Grounders girl,” Clarke says. “I don’t care how pretty she is, it’s—”

“I’m not eloping,” Monroe smiles wryly, amused. “I’m not Monroe,” Monroe breathes out slowly.

Clarke stares dumbly for a moment. “What?”

Monroe tries again. “I’m not Monroe,” and Clarke can sort of see that now—Monroe would never have this much patience. Also, she’s just not that tall.

“Well who are you?” she asks, because it’s a little strange to be having a conversation surrounded by baked goods, with her sister that isn’t her sister.

“Maya,” Monroe grins, and smirks proudly. “You didn’t even realize,” she says delighted.

“Maya,” Clarke echoes, only a little less confused. Maya is still grinning smugly, and she still looks like Monroe. “But why?”

“Mother didn’t even bother to consult with us about our apprenticeships,” she says bitterly, “Before shipping us off. And so Monroe and I put our heads together, and you know how she’s good with little spells and things, so she whipped us up a potion that will make us look like one another for the next few weeks.” She’s proud, Clarke can tell, and so she speaks gently.

“But what about when it wears off?”

Maya shrugs. “By then, the Wallace’s won’t care; they’ve seen how good I am with the pastries. I’m already decorating cakes.” She looks at Clarke shyly. “We did worry for you,” she says. “But we weren’t sure what to do—she’d have kept you at that shop, working for no wages, until the day she died.”

“Probably,” Clarke agrees mildly. “But it’s what I’m good at. I have no quarrels with medicine making.”

“You deserve more,” Maya insists.

“We deserve nothing,” Clarke waves a hand. “We earn what we work for, and that’s how it should be. Although,” she glances down at her withered hands, folded in her lap. “I’m still not quite sure what I did to earn _this_.”

“Yes I meant to ask about that,” Maya admits, “But I didn’t want to be rude. You’re sure it was _the_ Witch?”

“Quite sure,” Clarke nods. There aren’t many Witches roaming their city, casting spells like hers about. Maya worries her lip. “Why?”

“Well,” she hesitates. “It’s just—Monroe said she ran into the Witch not three days ago, and got into a rather heated argument.”

Clarke frowns; it’s _just_ like her sister, to go picking fights with a Witch. “I’m amazed she didn’t turn her into a log then and there,” she says hotly. She’s still mostly mad with the Witch, but a little with Monroe too, because now she knows this curse was most likely meant for the younger girl. They’d always looked alike.

“Apparently Monroe has some sort of protective hat these days,” Maya explains. Clarke raises a brow. “Yes,” Maya sighs, “I don’t get it, either. Magic has always gone over my head.” She makes a face. “Can you _believe_ Mother tried to apprentice _me_ to the town witch? Whatever was she thinking?”

“I’m glad you and Monroe worked things out,” Clarke says, because she is. Her younger sisters had never gotten on half as well as she had with the both of them, and it had always caused Clarke a decent amount of worry. She tends to always worry about her sisters, but particularly when they’re at each other’s throats.

“Me too,” Maya agrees. “We’re much happier this way. Monroe says hello—she’s working on something for you, I think. Another hat, probably. It’s her latest hobby.”

“What, hat-making?” Clarke asks, amused. Monroe had never really seemed the type to care much for fashion.

“Hat-enchanting, more like. She gave me a bonnet that whispers nice things in my ear.” Maya flushes with delight.

“Does she have one that soothes back pain?” Clarke asks. “I have the spine of an old woman now,” she reminds her. “And my newest employer is rather flighty, so perhaps a hat of lead for him.”

“Yes, how is that?” Maya asks, only mildly curious—nosiness was always Monroe’s forte. “Your letter said you’d set out west so the mountain air would cure your ailment. I’m not sure who was more concerned—Mother or Monroe. Also, furious.” She eyes Clarke. “It seems the trip hasn’t done you much good,” she teases.

“Better than I’d imagined,” Clarke decides. “I’m staying with the Wizard Belldragon, as his new housekeeper.” She hadn’t really planned on telling Monroe about her new living arrangements, but this is Maya—she’s much less prone to emotional outbursts.

“Oh, Clarke,” Maya frowns. “But they say he’s so wicked!”

“He might be,” Clarke agrees with a shrug. “I still don’t know much about him; and anyway, what would he want with me? He only eats the hearts of young girls.”

“You _are_ a young girl,” Maya argues. “You’re just dressed up as an old woman for the time being.”

Clarke pats her sister comfortingly on her knee. “Let Mother and Monroe know they needn’t worry, and that I’ll return when I can. I’ll try and visit as often as I’m able, but it’s nearly sundown, and I’m afraid these legs don’t move as fast as my old ones.”

Maya nods and helps Clarke to the door, waving her off until she is lost to the crowd.

Things progress at Belldragon’s, after that. Clarke learns that the windows open to the different places where the house’s door can open to—Arcadia; a seaside village in the north; a forest in Grounders territory; and a garden with a single, windowless tower.

The people in these different places, think differently of Belldragon. In the village, they call him Sorcerer Blake, and seek him for spells and quick remedies. In the forest, the Grounders tell myths of him, with the idea that sometimes he really is a dragon—Belldragon clearly likes these rumors best, while Clarke simply snorts in disbelief and works hard to dismount them. In the garden tower lives his sister, who Clarke thinks probably understands him best of all.

“He’s an idiot,” Octavia declares over tea one morning. Clarke has, to Belldragon’s chagrin, begun visiting her quite often. She’s only ever had the company of her brother, and sometimes Wick, and Clarke can tell she’s very lonely. “But he means well.”

“He’s a whore,” Clarke says gruffly, and Octavia laughs. In living with the Wizard, Clarke has come to realize several things—Belldragon is decidedly not a morning person, is entirely vain, and heads out every night to woo a different maiden. If it weren’t for her deal with his fire demon, Clarke would leave the fool behind in a minute.

“The day he doesn’t spend two hours enchanting himself to be beautiful for some girl,” Jasper had mentioned breezily over supper once, “Will be the day I’ll believe Bellamy is truly in love.”

“Hear, hear,” Wick agreed. Clarke had kept quiet on the matter—what should she care, about the fickle ways of Bellamy’s heart? Let him romance the entire kingdom; she would hardly notice.

Belldragon had introduced Clarke to Octavia, under the pretense of being their long-lost aunt, but his sister had seen through the lie so easily Clarke wondered at his having thought it might work at all. So instead she’d stepped right past him, offered her hand to the girl, and introduced herself properly.

“Clarke Vie,” she said, “Belldragon’s housekeeper.”

“You’ve got a curse on you,” Octavia decided, not at all surprised. Clarke wondered why the Witch had bothered with the secrecy clause at all, since the spell itself was so obvious. She took Clarke’s hand and led her through the gardens, leaving Belldragon behind and bewildered.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever met besides Bell,” she explained excitedly. “Well, and Wick, but he’s just a demon. How many men have you been with?”

Clarke choked on absolutely nothing. “I beg your pardon?”

Octavia grinned cheekily. “I do read,” she said. “Bell always comes with some new book, or story. He brought me a romance once,” she melted into the grass. “It was lovely. So, how many? Was it nice? I’ve read it’s nice.”

Clarke eyed her skeptically. “Does your brother know you ask these questions?”

“Who would I ask them to?” Octavia pointed out. “You’re my very first friend. Bell doesn’t count—we’re related, and he’s obligated to care for me.”

“He does,” Clarke said, because it was true. For the entire week he’d been babbling on about his sister, and his eagerness to see her again. He’d brought her books, as promised, and jewelry made of precious stones, and pastries from Wallace’s. Clarke had nearly been charmed by the new side to the Wizard—but then he’d taken up with the blacksmith’s young daughter, and left her heartbroken two nights later, so the sentiment hadn’t lasted long.

“I know,” Octavia nodded. “He built me this tower. Made me this garden—it was a desert, you know. In the Wastes. But, he figured it was the best place to hide me, so here we are.”

“Why are you hiding?” Clarke wondered. She’d asked Belldragon, but he’d ignored the question completely, pretending not to hear. Sometimes it’s hard to remember he isn’t a child.

“The prophecy,” Octavia said, like it was obvious. “That the first man I saw, not of my blood, would take my heart.”

Clarke frowned. “It isn’t a metaphor?” she asked. “For simply falling in love?”

Octavia shook her head, pulling at bits of grass and milkweed, making a pile between them. “These sorts of things are usually literal,” she explained. “Bell doesn’t want to chance someone ripping it out of my chest, or something.” She spoke about her own gruesome death with impressive nonchalance, but Clarke supposed she’d had some time to get used to the idea.

In the end, when Belldragon came to fetch Clarke back, Octavia had hugged her warmly, and made her promise to come see her again. She had, utterly charmed by the girl, and then followed Belldragon back through his enchanted door.

“She’s lovely,” Clarke said, and the Wizard grinned down at her.

“She is,” he agreed, tugging at the edelweiss Octavia had braided into Clarke’s gray hair.

Jasper is altogether jealous that Clarke gets to see Octavia, but he never has. “I’ve been his apprentice four years,” he whines each time she visits her. “And he’s never taken me with him—not once!” He stares at Clarke petulantly, but she only shrugs. She isn’t sure if she’s supposed to tell him about the prophecy.

“Octavia is very private,” she says, and it’s a terrible excuse. Jasper eyes her distrustfully.

“Then why does she let you come?” he asks pointedly.

“Because I am old and wise in the ways of the world,” Clarke shoots back. “She needs my sage advice.”

Jasper snorts, but smartly says nothing.

Belldragon strides in one morning, crossing immediately over to where Clarke is busily cutting up one of his lovely suits into jigsaw pieces. She’s planning on bringing them with her to Octavia, who has promised to stitch them into a nice skirt—Clarke’s only skirt is beginning to fray at the hem and she’s never much liked the color anyway.

“I told her not to,” Wick says happily from where he’s perched over her shoulder. He’d said nothing of the sort, had even told her to go for the nicest, most expensive suits, and Clarke is quite sure the Wizard knows this. He ignores the demon completely, looking down at what’s left of his suit in mild distaste.

He tosses a small potato sack filled with rocks down in her lap. Clarke looks at the sack at then him, in surprise. “What?” she wonders, because it’s a little bizarre. Nearly everything about Belldragon is strange, but. He doesn’t often throw rocks at her.

“What?” he replies, heading easily up the stairs. “Wick, warm some water for my bath,” he orders, and Wick grumbles as he reaches for another log.

Clarke pokes a hand into the sack and withdraws not a rock, but some sort of jar made of thick glass. Inside is a blue paste, some kind of paint mixed from flowers. She finds five jars in all—blue, green, red, yellow, and violet. She stares down at the collection in shock for several moments, before packing her suit scraps away and carrying the paints to her room.

She uses a brush made of boar bristles, and because she has no parchment, she paints on the walls. She’s fairly sure Belldragon won’t mind, and even if he does, he can always enchant them clean again.

Jasper walks in later that day and upon seeing her new walls, he begs her to transform his room as well, and so she paints well into the night, even as the boy eventually collapses crooked on his mattress, having spent most of the time chatting himself hoarse. There’s a girl he fancies, apparently, and he’s been carefully vague, but Clarke can gather she works at Wallace’s, and she takes a moment to hope it isn’t the enchanted Maya—he’ll be in for a shock when the potion wears off.

Once finished with Jasper’s walls, Clarke stashes the paints along the window in her room, sure she’s done with painting until she manages to buy a few sheets of parchment. But not a full day later and Belldragon is at her door, demanding to know why the rest of the house is so bland, while she and Jasper lounge in the luxury of color. She laughs at his absurdity, and takes her brush to the remaining walls, until the entire house is a tangram of swirls of pigments.

At the end of Clarke’s first month with the Wizard, a dog appears at the doorstep. It isn’t unusual for Clarke to answer the door, these days; she’s even sold a few of Belldragon’s ready-made spells and spices, when neither he nor Jasper were home. Usually she needs Wick’s help in telling the difference between a few ingredients, but she recognizes most of the herbs and powders from her own family’s shop, and simply writes out hasty receipts, and takes the money, stashing it in Jasper’s hidden jar so Belldragon can’t spend it all on new suits or pretty girls or at the tavern.

So when Wick tells her someone’s at the Arcadia door, Clarke doesn’t hesitate in switching the dial and pulling it open.

The dog is unlike any she’s seen before—some strange cross between an Australian Shepherd and Bassett Hound. It looks professional and proper, sitting stately on the front stoop. She takes one look at its harsh eyes and thinks _damn, I’m had_ , before stepping aside so it can pull itself in.

There’s a letter tied to the chain around the dog’s neck, short and perfunctory:

_Clarke, this is Lexa. She will protect you from your wicked landlord—please take care of her accordingly. Also, Maya has said you’ve seen her three times now, and I am feeling awfully neglected. Please remedy this immediately. Yours truly, Monroe_

“Lexa,” Clarke says to the dog. It merely blinks at her, disinterested. “What a curious name for a dog. Though, I suppose it _is_ Monroe…” She puts the letter away with her paints so she won’t lose it, and lets Lexa follow her around for the rest of the day.

When Jasper comes home to find her, he drops to his knees instantly, digging his hands through the fur at her neck. “I’ve always wanted a dog,” he declares. Lexa lets him continue to pet her, until Clarke crosses into the next room, and Lexa stands to follow. “She really likes you,” Jasper remarks, sounding only a little jealous.

“I have no idea why,” Clarke says, but secretly she’s pleased. She’s always wanted a dog, too.

Wick is suspicious of Lexa, and his eyes narrow whenever she walks by. The dog, for her part, ignores him completely, which only serves to upset him further.

“I don’t trust her,” he hisses when Clarke sinks into her stool by his hearth. “She doesn’t _feel_ like a dog,” he sniffs.

“What does she feel like?” Clarke asks, amused. She’s learned that, like his master, Wick does best when he feels he’s being given the appropriate amount of attention.

“Not a dog,” he says, and then sulks a little. She feeds him an extra log, but even that doesn’t improve his mood.

“He’s upset because he’s not your favorite anymore,” Jasper explains, trying hard not to laugh—it’s a valiant effort.

“He never was,” Clarke says mildly. Jasper looks surprised.

“Who’s your favorite, then?” he wonders, sounding a little hopeful. Clarke smirks.

“The house,” she decides. Jasper makes a face at her, and goes about packaging the ready-made spells Belldragon has put together.

Belldragon seems only a little surprised to see Lexa, regarding him fiercely from her place, half on Clarke’s feet. He frowns down at her. “You’ve acquired a dog,” he observes.

“It was either that, or a talking bonnet,” Clarke says.

“She had better be trained,” he warns, and Lexa looks at him darkly, taking offense.

Clarke visits Maya at the bakery the next day, Lexa by her side. “She sent you a _dog_?” Maya asks, a little envious. Clarke tries not to grin too smugly, scratching Lexa’s head as it rests in her lap.

“She’s sweet,” Clarke says. “Very protective—she won’t let Belldragon anywhere near me, and sometimes even Jasper.” She doesn’t mention that Lexa had taken instantly to Octavia—she hasn’t told anyone about Octavia, just in case.

“And all I got was a bonnet,” Maya frowns.

“It’s a very nice bonnet,” Clarke assures her. Maya is practically herself again, pale and sharp-featured and dark haired. She’d asked Jasper about it, subtly—they’re pretending Maya’s her grandniece—but he’d only smiled softly and called her _magical_ , and so Clarke knew she needn’t worry.

“How is your Wizard handling it?” Maya teases. Clarke huffs; her sister has taken to calling Belldragon _her_ Wizard, which is a borderline insult. She would never claim such a juvenile delinquent as hers.

“ _Belldragon_ is as infantile as usual,” Clarke says with a brief wave. Lexa huffs out a breath, almost as if laughing. “I still can’t believe you told Monroe,” she says, only a little petulantly. She’d been waiting to tell their sister, herself.

Maya seems confused. “I didn’t,” she says. “I thought _you_ did.”

Clarke frowns. “No,” she shakes her head. “But if you didn’t, then…” she trails off, lips thinning into a grimace. _Belldragon._ “That absolute busybody,” she growls. “I’ll give him such a piece of my mind he won’t have a thought of his own for weeks!”

Belldragon is in the upstairs bathroom, perfecting his face, when Clarke storms in. Lexa looks ready for battle, with teeth bared. Wick looks at them both with a sort of giddy excitement.

“Are you here to kill him then?” he asks happily.

“Something like that,” Clarke declares, stomping upstairs. She slams the bathroom door open to find the Wizard laid out in the bath.

He seems completely undisturbed by her sudden appearance, not looking up from the book in his hands. “Ah good,” he says. “You’re home. Get dressed—we’re going to have tea with royalty in an hour.”

Clarke, for her part, looks plenty disturbed for the both of them. He’s poured enough oils into the water that she can’t actually _see_ anything beyond his bared chest and arms, but that’s more than enough to send a flush down her neck.

 _This is ridiculous_ , she decides. _You’re an old woman now, for God’s sake; you’ve seen plenty of male chests_. She clears her throat before speaking, just in case.

“You went to Monroe,” she accuses, “To snoop. You snooped, you—you _snooper_.”

Now he glances up at her, entirely bemused. His hair isn’t in its naturally slicked back style, instead falling in damp and unruly curls around his face. He’s wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and his skin is speckled all over with dark freckles. He looks like an entirely different person—one she absolutely prefers to the ensemble he usually wears.

“Yes,” he agrees. “She has a great deal to say to you, you know. Quite the chatterbox.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Clarke snaps, feeling a new wave of angry defensiveness for her sister. “She’s clever, and beautiful, and talented at magic, same as you.”

Belldragon’s smile softens. “Yes,” he nods. “Family traits, I assume.”

 _He’s just trying to butter me up_ , Clarke decides. _Not this time_. She glowers. “How long have you known I’m not actually Old Clarke?”

Belldragon laughs fondly. “Pretty much since I met you,” he admits. “I _am_ a Wizard; I do know a little about my own trade, and your curse has a pretty clear stench to it.”

“Why didn’t you try to break it?” Clarke wonders, feeling a little put out. She wouldn’t exactly call them _friends_ , but she’d thought there was some sort of comradery there—she’d thought he’d at least have _tried_.

“I have,” he says, kindly. “Several times, while you weren’t looking. I’ve come to realize the only thing still holding your curse in place, is _you_.”

“Me?” Clarke asks. “How am I doing it?”

Belldragon shrugs. “Maybe you like being a different person,” he suggests. “It’s understandable; I go out in disguise all the time.”

“Only to avoid Royal duty, and scorned lovers,” Clarke scoffs. Belldragon shrugs a second time, but he doesn’t deny it.

“Regardless,” he waves a hand. “You are your only obstacle. Now—as I said, we _are_ dining with Royalty tonight, so you should dress accordingly, and allow me to do the same.”

He waits for her to understand his meaning, and when she flushes at once, he smirks widely.

“Oh, shut up,” Clarke snaps, slamming the door shut behind her. Lexa watches, unimpressed, from her seat in the hallway. “Not you too,” Clarke says hotly. “I am not in the mood for your judgment.”

She slips into the skirt Octavia made her out of Belldragon’s old suit, and Belldragon puts on a new suit made with the same pattern. His hair is slicked back, his glasses and freckles gone, and he’s still remarkably handsome, but. She misses the disorder of him.

“We match,” he says happily, pointing between their identically patterned attire. Clarke rolls her eyes, and ducks so he won’t see her smile.

“So what is this I hear about Royalty?” she asks, only a little surprised. Belldragon is a fairly well-known Wizard—King Jaha has tried calling on him several times, though Belldragon also proved adept at shirking Royal duties—it makes sense that he knows others.

“Royalty?” Wick calls out from the hearth. “Do you mean Raven? Are you going to see Raven _without_ me?”

“You’ve never actually met her,” Belldragon says.

“I don’t need to,” Wick declares. “I already know she’s amazing. Can I come?”

“You can’t leave the house,” Clarke points out.

Wick huffs, irritated. “Semantics,” he argues.

“You can’t come,” Belldragon says. “And if Jasper wants soup, let him make some.” The demon is still grumbling when they step outside the door.

They step out, and Clarke is surprised to find them staring up at the entrance to a palace. It’s modestly sized, no bigger than a very large house to be honest, but Clarke knows a palace when she sees one.

“You changed the door,” she realizes. Bellamy grins.

“I am a Wizard.”

“So you’ve said.” They climb the steps side-by-side, his hand warm and large and pressed against the small of her back. It’s very distracting.

“Who am I to masquerade as, this time?” she wonders, mostly trying to take her mind off of his hand. She wishes Lexa was with her—she’s grown used to the dog’s quiet presence. “Your great-aunt? Senile godmother? An old beggar woman rescued off the street?”

Belldragon squints down at her. “Funny.”

Clarke shrugs and hobbles her way up the steps. He’s matching her pace, which can’t be easy with legs as long as his, but she’s not about to thank him. It’s really the least he can do.

The footmen open the palace doors wordlessly, and they step into the marbled entryway. At the bottom of the grand center staircase stands a beautiful young woman, no more than two years older than Clarke’s true age. She has skin nearly the same shade as Belldragon’s, and impressively dark hair pulled back from her face. She wears a pair of tailored trousers rather than a dress, with a waistcoat and buckled leather boots. She looks nothing like Clarke had assumed Royalty would.

“Bellamy Blake,” the woman says, smirking fondly. “It’s about damned time you showed up.”

Belldragon grins widely. “Sorry, your highness,” he teases. “But we can’t all spend our days doing whatever the hell we want.”

The woman snorts indelicately. “Last I heard, that’s still your mantra,” she shoots back, and Clarke can’t help the laugh that escapes her.

The pair turn to her in question, and she straightens her shoulders. “Well, she’s not wrong,” she defends, and the woman gives her a bright smile.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, Madam,” she says, putting out a hand. “Raven Reyes, Marquess of Mount Weather.”

“Clarke Vie,” Clarke shakes her hand. “Housekeeper of the Wizard Belldragon.”

The Marquess laughs with her head tipped back. “I’m surprised he brought you,” she chirps. “Bellamy usually keeps the good ones to himself.” She winks at Clarke, which, while not unwelcome, is a little sidetracking.

“Like Octavia,” Clarke agrees, but the Marquess shoots them a confused glance, and Belldragon rubs at the back of his neck, which he only does when embarrassed—and Clarke realizes, he’s only ever shared his sister with her.

It gives her a great deal of satisfaction.

“Well,” the Marquess declares, “Let’s not just stand around all evening. Come—let me show you the unnecessary wealth throughout this palace.” She isn’t wrong in her description; there is an entire room dedicated to hanging mirrors. Clarke thinks Monroe would probably like the place, and she resolves to take her here one day.

They eat in the formal dining room, which is uncomfortable for everyone (the hall echoes, it is so large), and so after the main course they migrate to the sitting room, which has plush chairs and shelves filled with books, and is in general much more relaxing for all involved.

They play a strange version of chess that allows them each to play at the same time, and Clarke never really gets the hang of it, but she has the feeling the other two are just making the rules up as they go along, so she’s not too embarrassed.

The Marquess tells her stories of Belldragon when they were younger, and growing up in the same village. There was another boy with them, Miller, who has gone on to become his own Wizard.

“So are you also a Wizard?” Clarks asks. “Or a Witch?” she amends. The other two erupt into laughter.

“Goodness, no,” the Marquess gasps out, “ _Thank God_! I’m a woman of science—I never really fell for all that magic spell working stuff.”

Clarke glances at Belldragon, but he’s looking at the Marquess, a mixture of amused and mildly exasperated. “But you grew up with two Wizards,” Clarke says. “You must believe in magic.”

“Oh, I believe in it,” the Marquess nods. “In that I know it’s real—the same as I know gravity, and the planets are real. But I’d much rather fly with something made with my own two hands, than rely on some incantation to keep me in the air.”

Clarke can see her point, so she nods, and the conversation moves onto politics and local news that Clarke doesn’t follow. They talk a bit about the missing Prince of Arcadia, and apparently the Royal Wizard Trigadekru has also disappeared—although no one’s quite sure that wasn’t done on purpose, as a sort of spell. There’s also a missing Princess, from Mount Weather, but Clarke gathers that story is several years old, more of a legend than anything. Something to tell children as they sleep.

Eventually the moon rises full in the sky, and Belldragon and Clarke take their leave.

“You are always welcome,” the Marquess says warmly.

“Just don’t let her near any of your things,” Bellldragon warns Clarke with a smile. “She’ll steal them—she’s a complete kleptomaniac. It’s a bit of a problem.”

Raven punches Belldragon hard in the arm and then hugs him, and gives Clarke’s shoulder a squeeze. “Just remember to knock first,” she winks, and they make their way back to the house. From this side of the door, it seems little more than a ramshackle garden shed, but when they step inside, the room glows from Wick’s light, and the air smells of garlic soup.

“I burned it,” Wick snaps petulantly. He glares over at Lexa, laying in the corner of the room, and she glares back. She stretches and stands, gives Clarke a once-over to make sure she is unharmed and intact, and then retires for the night.

“Perhaps instead of a fire demon, I should invest in a dog,” Belldragon muses. Wick glares at him.

“The Marquess seems,” Clarke pauses, trying to think of the right word. Belldragon waits, amused. “Fun,” she decides. He laughs.

“She is,” he agrees, and Clarke tries very hard not to feel jealous. She’s fairly sure she’s never been considered fun by anyone, and for good reason. As the eldest, she’d had to be the responsible one, the dutiful daughter inheriting the family business while her sisters went into the world.

She’s had more adventure as a seventy year old woman, than in all of her first eighteen years.

“Why do you not try for her heart?” Clarke wonders. The Marquess is certainly young and lovely enough to be the Wizard’s type.

“We tried, once,” he admits quietly. “Neither of us really wanted it, to be honest—it just seemed like we should try. And now we’re great friends, so,” he grins back at her. “A happily ever after.”

“Sort of,” Clarke amends sadly, because Belldragon is still heartless, and the Marquess is still alone in her enormous home.

“Sort of,” he agrees, dishing her a bowl of soup.

The next day, Belldragon doesn’t leave his bed at all, and when the sun is high in the sky, Clarke decides to brave his room to check on him.

“Don’t,” Jasper warns nervously. “Bellamy only gets mad when someone interrupts his sleep—or if a girl dumps him.”

Clarke huffs and makes her way up the stairs. “I refuse to let him act like a man-sized baby any longer,” she declares. “I am not meant to be a nanny.” She raps sharply on his closed door, mostly so she can say that she knocked when he wakes up cranky, and then slips inside.

Belldragon is already awake, she can tell, though she can’t see his face. He’s lying in a nest of pillows and quilts, face-down on the mattress. She’s never seen him more pathetic.

“Clarke,” he croaks. “I’m dying.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she chides, putting the back of her knuckles to his sweaty forehead. She frowns; he does feel a little warm.

“Cruel old bitty,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat to it.

“Whiny brat,” Clarke counters, and Belldragon lets out something caught between a laugh and a cough. He groans in faux agony.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Clarke decides. “Then you just have to sleep the bug off. You’ll be fine in the morning, I’ll wager.” She hobbles down to collect her tea leaves, and then boils them in the kettle before carrying a cup up to the Wizard.

“Drink this,” she commands, and Belldragon makes a show of sitting up slowly, groaning all the way. He takes the teacup gingerly, sticking his nose close to the room to sniff it suspiciously. Clarke huffs, impatient. He takes a tentative sip and then makes a face.

“It tastes like licorice,” he complains.

“Yes, an absolute travesty,” Clarke deadpans. “Drink it all.”

He does, and then makes a fuss about his blankets until Clarke is forced to tuck them in around him. “I’m cold,” he sniffs petulantly.

“I’ll fetch more blankets,” Clarke decides, mostly so she can get away with him—she’s worried she’ll strangle the man if she doesn’t, and then she’ll be out an employer _and_ a landlord.

She tucks the extra quilts around him tightly, and he scowls. “Now I’m too hot,” he says. “Will you read to me?”

“If it gets you to shut your mouth,” Clarke growls back. “What would you like to hear?”

“Anything,” he declares, waving a hand. “It doesn’t matter.” He pauses. “There’s a book of ancient myths on that shelf by the window.” Clarke goes to it. Its spine is cracked and bent, evidence of years spent being opened. She sits on the chair by his bed, getting comfortable—it’s quite a large book.

“Where should I start?” Clarke asks.

“The middle, or near-about,” Belldragon decides. “It’s the best place to start any story—all the wars are beginning, and you’ve missed the boring bits.”

“Like character introductions?” Clarke asks with a wry grin.

“That’s part of the fun,” Belldragon waggles a brow. “Now you can guess at the names, and make up your own backstories.”

“You _would_ cheat at something so simple as reading,” Clarke teases, but she opens the book up to the middle, and begins to read.

He falls asleep rather quickly, and sleeps through the rest of the day and then the night, and wakes refreshed and healthy the next morning as she predicted.

“It’s a miracle he didn’t swamp the house,” Jasper whispers while they listen to Belldragon pattering about in the upstairs bathroom. Jasper, Clarke has found, is quite the gossip. “He does that, usually, whenever he feels down about something. Mostly girls.”

“I’ve seen him do it over burnt toast,” Wick pipes up helpfully.

“What does he do, exactly?” Clarke wonders. Jasper and Wick share a look.

“He leaks,” Jasper decides. “He gets so sulky, it starts oozing from him in this weird slime, and then sometimes it catches things on fire.”

“But that’s only when he’s angry,” Wick clarifies. “Mostly it’s just sticky and gross.”

“Good to know,” Clarke says. She’s glad the Wizard didn’t ooze any—she’s never tried getting magic slime out of her skirts, and she’s not sure soap would quite cut it.

“I’ll be out for some time,” Belldragon declares as he storms down the stairs—he can never seem to make an entrance that isn’t dramatic. “Don’t wait up,” he waggles a finger at Clarke, “And don’t go through my things while I’m gone; I like my mess the way it is, thank you.”

Clarke huffs, blushing only a little. “I wasn’t going to go anywhere near that sty,” she lies. She had, in fact, planned on taking care of some of the spider webs she’d noticed hiding in his rafters the day before.

Belldragon smirks down on her, as if reading her mind. Well—he _is_ a Wizard. “I like spiders,” he teases. “They build a mansion in a single day, and when it gets torn down, they just try again.” It sounds awfully sincere.

Clarke scoffs. “I’m sure you’ll be singing their praises when they crawl through your ears to lay eggs in your brain,” she shoots. Jasper clutches at his ears, horrified.

Belldragon just waves a hand, not worried in the slightest. “I’ve enchanted my ears to be impenetrable,” he shrugs. “Yours as well, so no fretting.”

“I’ll fret if I want,” Clarke snaps childishly. She can’t help it around him. “And no enchanting me without my say so!”

“Did you do mine?” Jasper wonders a little hopefully.

“No,” Belldragon says, and Jasper’s face falls.

“You’re wicked,” Clarke decides, and Belldragon grins.

“No he’s not,” Jasper argues.

“Yes I am,” Belldragon says, “You just don’t notice because I feed you and let you stay in my house.”

Clarke fidgets a little uncomfortably because that’s essentially what he does for her as well. She’d sort of bullied her way into living here.

“Where will you be?” Jasper asks.

“I have a date,” Belldragon smiles, smug.

“Of course you do,” Clarke makes a face. Belldragon goes on dates every other day, nearly always with a different girl. She tells herself it only bothers her because she knows he’s playing with the poor girls’ affections. Belldragon, for all intents and purposes, seems rather unable to love.

“Jealous?” Belldragon teases. Clarke swipes at his shoulder, hard, and is more than a little pleased when he winces.

“I’m just wondering when you’re going to start actually being a Wizard,” Clarke says. “From what I’ve seen, you just go on dates and spend hours primping in the bath.”

“Sometimes he eats,” Wick adds.

“Ungrateful, the lot of you,” Belldragon says mildly, and then shuts the door after him.

“Well Jas,” Clarke says, turning to the boy. “Looks like it’s just you and me today. Need any help with those spells of yours?”

“Erm,” he grimaces, and Clarke frowns. “Actually, I’m spending the day with Mo—Maya,” he flushes, still getting used to her real name. Clarke eyes him, amused.

“Should I ask after your intentions with my grandniece?” she asks, only a little teasingly. She’s sort of serious—it is her little sister, after all.

Jasper splutters, “No, ma’am! I—I—we’re quite in love.”

“Are you?”

“We are,” Jasper nods, suddenly stern.

“Alright,” Clarke concedes with a shrug. After all, it is Maya’s decision, ultimately, and Clarke has never been so eager to poke her nose into things. She isn’t Monroe.

“I might miss supper,” Jasper warns, apologetically. He and Clarke have gotten used to dining together in the evenings, chatting over their meal and whatever projects Belldragon has left Jasper to do. It seems Clarke has quite the talent for binding the ingredients together, something which Jasper told her a little grudgingly.

She still wasn’t _really_ sure what binding entailed, but it felt nice to have an aptitude for something.

“That’s quite alright,” Clarke assures him. “I’ll have Wick, and Lexa. We’ll be fine—go on to your sweetheart.” Jasper flushed at the word, but skipped off quickly enough.

“He’ll find out eventually,” Wick says. “That she’s not your grandniece.”

“Yes,” Clarke agrees. “Probably at the wedding. But until then, let’s not dwell on it.”

She sits around the house for a while, cleaning though nothing much warranted it, besides Belldragon’s room, which he’s stubbornly locked, most likely with magic.

“I’ll get at you, eventually,” Clarke warns the spiders through the wood of his door.

She tries to sew at a few tears in the hem of her skirts, but Clarke’s never had much of an affinity for the needle, so she gives up. She’ll ask Octavia to mend it when she next visits.

She paints a little, and then tries and fails at making biscuits—they burn horribly, so she feeds them all to Wick, which she’s pretty sure was the demon’s goal all along.

Finally, she says, “I’m sick of this house! The walls are making me ill.”

“You painted the walls,” Wick says, bewildered, and a little offended. “They’re nice walls.”

“They’re making me ill,” Clarke repeats. “I’m going for some air.” She turns the dial to the seaside village, because she likes the smell of salt, and Lexa follows her out.

Clarke isn’t really sure what to do with her sudden free day—usually she uses her spare time to visit with Maya, but she hates the thought of interrupting her sister’s date with Jasper. She has half a mind to finally see Monroe at her witch’s place, but her sister is probably busy with her studies, and it would require going back to the house, which Clarke very much does not want to do. So instead she wanders.

It doesn’t take much for Clarke to get lost, and so when she realizes it she isn’t very surprised; she’s never had a knack for direction, and she has never been in the habit of simply walking about.

“I’m afraid I don’t know where we are,” she confesses to Lexa, who shoots her such a dubious look she feels chastised.

The dog then quickens her pace a little, so it’s in the lead, and Clarke is suddenly very sure that Lexa knows where she’s going. She decides to follow without complaint—after all, it’s not as if she can get much _more_ lost.

Lexa leads them through a back end of the village Clarke has never been to—filled with merchant’s stalls and sweets shops and taverns, each smelling better than the last. She buys a bit of uncooked salted pork for Lexa, and a caramel-dipped apple for herself, and begins to wander again.

She’s licking the last of the caramel from her fingers and chin when she sees Belldragon, arm in arm with a pretty brunette. The girl is older than the ones he usually dates, and where his past whims have seemed flighty and boisterous, this girl wears only a soft, demure smile as Belldragon whispers something to the skin above her ear. This, more than anything, is what makes Clarke stop and stare at them, utterly shocked.

They are the picture of a lovely couple, she thinks. And then she hurries to duck behind a stall so they won’t see her—which proves to be entirely unnecessary, as they then turn into a shop at the opposite end of the street. Lexa watches Clarke, unimpressed.

“I don’t answer to you,” Clarke hisses, more to herself than the dog. Lexa huffs a breath and then scratches herself.

She feels sick the rest of the way back. She tells herself it was the caramel.

She’s attempting to sew again when Belldragon returns. Jasper has already retired upstairs, delighted at the box of sweets Clarke had brought home for him. She’s trying to balance out Belldragon’s blatant indifference towards the boy, by spoiling him.

“You’re making quite the mess of that,” the Wizard observes, looking down at her work.

Clarke scowls, but it’s true; the tips of her fingers are red from being pricked so often, and her stitches are crooked and uneven, making the hem wrinkled and ugly. Belldragon reaches out a hand.

“Give it here,” he sighs, “I suppose I’ll have to fix it.”

“You sew?” Clarke asks, surprised. She wasn’t aware Belldragon knew how to do normal human things.

Belldragon plucks out her stitches with quick, deft fingers. “Who do you think taught Octavia?” he asks, amused, and she supposes he has a point.

“Who taught you?” she asks.

“My mother,” he says fondly. “She was a seamstress.”

“Not in Arcadia,” Clarke guesses. She’s sort of always known he wasn’t from her land.

“No,” he agrees. “I’m from a small island—not many know it.”

“What’s it like?” She wonders if it’s anything like the seaside village. If it were, she imagines she’d quite like it.

“Warm,” he says. “Quiet. Wet. I’ll take you, sometime.”

He says it with such nonchalance that Clarke blushes, an incredibly silly reaction, all things considered. She lives with the man, and she’s getting flustered over a future visit to his childhood home. Ridiculous.

“How was your date?” she asks, only half-interested in the answer. Mostly she just wants to change the subject, and if Belldragon starts in on his latest fancy, she’s very likely to get annoyed, which is a much more preferable emotion.

“Why?” he smirks. “You saw her, yourself; you don’t need me to describe her.”

Clarke scowls. “I hadn’t meant to,” she snaps. “It was an accident.”

“I know,” he says. “You didn’t need to hide.”

Her frown deepens, and she’s ready to fight him, when he holds up her skirt in pride.

“There,” he says, swinging the dress into her lap. “Perfection.”

It’s still an ugly green color, and a little thin around the elbows and knees, and altogether ill-fitting, so it’s very far from perfect, but. His stitches are nearly invisible, they’re so tightly made, and the hem looks just as good as it ever did. “You’re good at this,” she decides. “Much better than you are at magic. Or romance.”

“Yes, now you know where my true passions lie,” Belldragon muses, crossing over to the stove. Wick has been drifting sleepily between orange and blue for hours, but he perks up when Belldragon drops a large cast iron pot on his head.

“What,” Wick demands.

“Stew,” Belldragon answers promptly. “If you behave, I’ll let you have some.”

“I’m not a dog,” Wick whines, and Lexa glares up at him pointedly.

“You’re not a dog,” Belldragon agrees. “Much less well-trained.”

“I’ll burn your stew,” Wick threatens as Belldragon sets about collecting and slicing at winter peppers and potatoes.

“You’d do that anyway,” he says mildly.

“You’re right,” Wick agrees. “Burning things is fun.”

“What are you making?” Clarke asks, drifting towards them. He’s moved along to the beef now, and some sort of sausage she doesn’t recognize. Peas bob along in the simmering water, and Wick is trying to reach a few with his flaming tongue.

“Caldereta,” Belldragon says. “It’s very popular on my island.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Clarke admits, sneaking a bit of sausage and popping it in her mouth. It’s hot, hotter than anything she’s ever tasted, and she nearly spits it out in surprise. But once the burn dulls a little, she can really _taste_ it, and she instantly wants more.

Belldragon watches her wipe at her eyes and smirks. “Sure you can handle it?”

“I can handle anything,” Clarke says curtly, and Belldragon grins at her.

“I’m sure,” he agrees, handing her a paring knife. “I hope your potato peeling is better than your stitching.”

“It is,” she declares, and starts to peel and cube them. She’s only a little better at it than she was at sewing—and she was _awful_ at sewing—so her slices are all a little uneven and rough, but Belldragon doesn’t seem to mind. They work in a companionable silence, interrupted periodically by Wick crackling or telling a joke.

Jasper’s been feeding him puns recently, each more awful than the last, and he shares them at every opportunity. Belldragon hates it, but Clarke thinks it’s charming. “You would,” the Wizard had wrinkled his nose when she’d told him.

“Belldragon,” Clarke says as he dishes out the stew. She’s trying not to salivate too obviously. “Why is Octavia in the garden, rather than the island?”

“You can call me Bellamy you know,” the Wizard says breezily, ignoring her question completely. “Wick only uses it to goad me, but if it’s you I won’t mind.”

“Bellamy,” she says, trying out the new sound. To be honest, she’d sort of forgotten his real name. It’s a little strange, but not very wizardly. She can see why he changed it.

“Octavia told you about the prophecy,” Bellamy says as they sit at the table. Clarke nods and spoons heaping mounds of stew into her mouth, letting the broth drip down her chin without much care. It’s too delicious to eat slowly. Bellamy watches, amused, as he eats at a normal pace. “You’ll burn yourself,” he warns.

“Weakling,” Clarke accuses around a bite of sausage. She does burn the roof of her mouth, but refuses to let that stop her.

“Octavia and I have different fathers,” he says, blasé, and Clarke tries not to seem too curious. “I never knew mine and she never knew hers, though I remember him, a little. He was…unsettling,” he decides, and it’s probably the most diplomatic she’s ever heard him. “He left when I was very small. Our mother managed to keep Octavia hidden in her cottage for most of her childhood, but then she died suddenly when I was still a teenager, and living in the city with my mentor.

“So, I made the tower, and the garden because she wanted flowers. I visited her as much as I could—it wasn’t nearly enough, but I tried. She deserved better, still does, but we can’t risk it. I did, once. I let her out of the cottage, and took her into the woods. I thought it was safe enough; we were pretty far from the nearest village. But there was a hunter who nearly caught her. She didn’t see him, but it was too close for comfort.”

It’s the most Bellamy has ever said in one sitting, at least to her, and the most serious she’s ever seen him. He still wears the soft smile he always does when speaking of his sister, but there’s real fear in his eyes too. Clarke thinks about what she might do, if either of her sisters were in Octavia’s place. She’d probably go mad with worry.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, and Bellamy grins cheekily, reverting back to his terrible self.

“For an old crone,” he teases, “You’re remarkably easy to talk to.”

“And I didn’t even have to flirt with you,” she shoots back.

“I’m not sure you know how to flirt,” Bellamy muses.

“You’re probably right,” Clarke agrees. “I’d be awful at flirting.”

“Worse than you are at sewing?” he asks. “Or slicing potatoes?”

“I’m not sure,” Clarke admits. “I’ve never tried.” All at once, Bellamy’s grin is gone and he clears his throat, leaping up to carry their bowls to the sink.

“I should take care of these,” he says softly, and Clarke stares after him, confused.

In the morning, Lexa is a different breed. Something sleek and gray, with short silvery fur close to her skin, and a narrow face and skinny tail. But her eyes are the same, so Clarke knows she’s Lexa.

“You got another dog?” Jasper asks, eyeing Lexa’s new form. “Bellamy won’t be happy.”

“Why should I care whether he is or not?” Clarke demands, still a little rattled from the night before. “Anyway, it’s the same dog. Different breed.”

“Odd,” Jasper decides with a shrug, because it’s definitely strange, but not the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.

“Still horrific-looking,” Wick grumbles. Lexa bares her teeth at him.

There’s a sudden knock at the door, but when they glance at Wick to see which way to turn the dial, the demon looks bewildered.

“I,” he pauses. “I’m not sure.”

Clarke glances at Jasper. “Has this happened before?” she asks.

“Never,” Jasper shakes his head, also bewildered. From above their heads, there is a deep _thud_ , and then Bellamy is downstairs, wrenching the door open with a wide grin.

“You’re late,” he chides happily as two men stride in.

The first is Bellamy’s age, perhaps a little younger, with dark skin and a small knitted hate tugged over his ears. The one beside him is considerably younger, like Jasper, with fine features and very black hair.

“A Wizard is never late,” the first man says wryly, before clasping Bellamy’s shoulder warmly. “It is good to see you,” he says.

The pair are nearly toppled by Jasper as he runs into the younger boy’s arms, laughing wildly. “He didn’t say you were coming,” he says, excited.

Clarke turns to see if Wick is as confused as she is, but the demon is glowing brightly with happiness. “Miller,” he crows, “Have you come to rescue me from your heartless friend?”

The first man—Miller, Clarke assumes—shoots Wick a smirk. “What makes you think I’m any better?”

Wick crackles with laughter, and Clarke suddenly remembers how she knows the stranger’s name. “You know the Marquess,” she blurts. The four men turn to her in question.

“You met Raven?” Miller asks, glancing at Bellamy curiously. Bellamy frowns.

“I thought they might get along,” he says, defensive. “Clarke needs more friends.”

“No I don’t,” Clarke argues. “I can barely handle the friends I have now!”

Bellamy grins, and Jasper tugs his friend over to her. “Clarke,” Jasper says happily, “This is Monty. We grew up together, and then we both went on to be apprenticed to Wizards.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Monty says shyly, and Clarke instantly decides to like him.

“That’s quite the curse you have,” Miller observes, still eyeing her. Jasper’s eyes go wide.

“What curse?” he demands, glancing between the two of them. Clarke sighs.

“I suppose you would have found out eventually,” she shrugs. She was tiring of the lie anyway. “I’m not actually Old Clarke, and Maya isn’t really my grandniece.”

“She’s cursed to look old,” Bellamy explains because Clarke can’t, really. She can certainly infer, in so many words, but the clause still forbids her stating it outright. “She’s actually quite young.”

“My back would disagree with you,” Clarke says.

“Liar,” Bellamy accuses. “Your back hasn’t ached for weeks—I should know, I put the spell on it.”

“What have I told you about doing that?” Clarke demands crossly.

“Maya’s your sister,” Jasper realizes, looking a little put out at having been left in the dark for so long. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” Clarke shrugs. “Not really. The others all guessed.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t guess,” Jasper sulks and Clarke eyes him suspiciously, looking for any signs of slime.

Monty pats his friend’s shoulder. “It’s not exactly the obvious conclusion,” he comforts. Jasper seems mildly reassured.

“Now that that’s settled,” Miller decides, turning back to Bellamy. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Clarke asks, and the Wizards turn back to her.

Bellamy smirks. “A party. Go get changed—it starts in ten minutes.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Clarke argues, feeling foolish. She’d never cared much about fashion before, but she’d also never been to a party. It feels like the sort of thing she shouldn’t wear her ugly green smock to, and she’s not sure the skirt made of Bellamy’s suit will do either.

“You keep forgetting I’m a Wizard,” Bellamy sighs, amused. “Go check your closet. And hurry, we don’t want to be late.”

“You should consider that before waiting until the last second all the time,” Clarke says, rushing over to her room.

The dress is beautiful, as she knew it would be—the same blue as her eyes, and made of some foreign cloth that falls smoothly through her fingers. It looks expensive, and Clarke hopes he didn’t buy it, because Jasper will be thoroughly displeased.

She takes it gently from the hanger, and a mask falls from its skirts. It’s small, just enough to cover her eyes and the bridge of her nose, a dull white with blue trimming. It’s just as beautiful as the dress, and well-made. She hopes he didn’t buy that, either.

Clarke changes into the dress and the mask, and unbraids her hair to re-braid it the way she did when she was young—which wasn’t very long ago.

Feeling suitably dressed, she steps out to find the Wizards wearing new suits with intricate waistcoats, and masks similar to her own.

“Finally,” Bellamy grouses, stepping towards the door. “Jasper, Monty; let’s not have a repeat of last time, hm?”

The boys go pale and look suitably chagrinned. “What happened last time?” Clarke asks. Bellamy ignores her.

“And feed the dog,” he says, and then they leave.

The party is actually a ball, specifically a masquerade, in what Clarke thinks is probably a palace. It’s hard to tell, since from the outside it seems dreary and put together with cobblestones and mortar, but on the inside, she nearly goes blind from all the gold crown molding and marble floors.

Each room is bigger and grander than the last, until they eventually reach the ballroom, where dozens of couples are dancing a Waltz.

Miller turns to Clarke with a slight bow. “May I?” he asks, and Clarke looks at him in surprise. There are several young maidens lined up against the walls, in need of a partner—she hadn’t really considered herself a prospect.

“Of course,” she agrees, a little charmed, and he leads her to the floor.

They’ve barely begun to dance when he says, “So what are your intentions with Bellamy?” and Clarke trips over her skirt.

“I—what?” she stutters. “I need his help, breaking the curse.” Miller eyes her doubtfully—his mask is brown and made of leather, covering more than half of his face, but his eyes are perfectly visible.

“I think we both know that’s not true,” he says. “But alright, I’ll rephrase; what are your intentions with Wick?”

Clarke feels herself flushing with embarrassment at being had, and tries to come up with an excuse he won’t see through, but Miller only laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “We’ve all made a deal with that demon at least once.”

“What was your deal?” Clarke asks, more than a little relieved. She’s trying to surreptitiously glance down at their feet, so she doesn’t step on him. She’s never been much of a dancer.

She’s starting to realize she doesn’t have many talents, at all. It’s a little disheartening.

“I wanted to save my father—he had a sickness in his lungs—and Wick tried to make me give him my heart, like Bellamy. But I just gave him my hair, instead.”

“Your hair?” Clarke asks, actively trying not to wonder at the part where Bellamy gave Wick his heart.

Miller smiles wistfully. “It used to be long,” he says. “In a braid.”

“I can’t imagine it,” Clarke declares, brushing softly at the stubble on his scalp. And then, because she can’t really help herself, “Bellamy gave Wick his heart?”

“When he was a boy,” Miller says. “It’s why they’re still bound together.”

“Is it why he goes on so many dates?” Clarke asks.

Miller gives a wry smile. “I think that part’s just Bellamy.”

Clarke isn’t so sure, but she doesn’t argue. “So Wick has Bellamy’s heart, and he still asked for yours? How greedy.”

“All demons are greedy,” Miller shrugs.

“Some more than others.”

Miller eyes her carefully. “Bellamy will be upset with me, for telling you this,” he decides.

“He’ll be upset with us both no matter what,” Clarke counters. “We might as well deserve it.” Miller grins.

Here, the dance ends, and a stranger cuts in, catching Clarke’s hands for the next round. They’re wearing a smart suit and tall buckled boots, and a mask made entirely of metal. Their hair is dark and loose around their shoulders, and Clarke thinks they seem familiar.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the woman grins, and Clarke gasps in happy surprise.

“Marquess!” she grins back, and the Marquess groans.

“Call me Raven,” she says, “ _Maquess_ makes me sound like a fat housecat of a woman who eats stable boys for supper.”

Clarke laughs. “Yes, you are definitely not a fat housecat,” she decides. Raven smirks.

“I do eat stable boys, though.”

They mostly make up the steps as they go, as this dance isn’t a Waltz and they’re unfamiliar with the music.

“Do you know whose ball this is?” Clarke asks.

Raven shrugs. “Some Duchess, I think,” she says. “Rosa, Roma, something like that. We’re in Grounders’ land right now.”

“This is not how I had pictured it,” Clarke admits, a little embarrassed. As a child, she’d heard stories of the Grounders, who wore their hair plated back close to their heads, and smeared coal dust around their eyes rather than wear sunhats. The men wore woolen skirts and feathers in their hair—they seemed childishly savage, and played the villains in most of her girlhood tales.

Raven shrugs. “I’ve been to a few southern villages, and they weren’t anything like this. Everywhere’s different, I guess.”

“You certainly seem to travel a lot,” Clarke remarks, and she supposes since living with Bellamy, she travels a lot too, but she has the magic door and Raven doesn’t, so it’s different.

Raven nods. “I have to,” she says. “I’m actually the Queen’s Ambassador—she just gave me the title Marquess when the Princess disappeared. I’m keeping the seat warm for her.”

“What Princess?” Clarke wonders. She remembers hearing bits of the story from the night of their dinner, but she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.

“Princess Clara Kell,” Raven says. “She was kidnapped as a baby.”

“That’s terrible,” Clarke frowns, but Raven only shrugs.

“It is, but it’s been almost eighteen years; almost everyone has forgotten about it, except Abby.”

“Abby?” Clarke asks; the name doesn’t sound familiar.

“The Queen,” Raven says. “Abigail Griffin.”

“Ah,” Clarke nods, though she still doesn’t recognize it. It’s unsurprising; she’d never held much interest in politics, and she’s not from Mount Weather. “She still thinks the Princess will come back?”

Raven sighs. “I think she’s just a mother who can’t accept her child is gone.”

The music changes, and a man steps in to take Raven’s place. The Marquess eyes him, amused, but steps back all the same, and Clarke puts her hand on his shoulder.

It is very clearly Bellamy; she’d seen what he was wearing—the silvery suit with the black feathered mask. But he’s not speaking, and Clarke thinks this is probably some sort of game, so she feigns ignorance as well.

The dance begins, and she doesn’t know this one either, although clearly he does, and he leads her through it effortlessly. She expects to stumble at least once, but instead finds herself leaning into him each time he steps back, and pulling him to her each time he steps forward. It’s a little overwhelming, and so she doesn’t hear him at first when he speaks.

“What?” she asks.

“I said,” he repeats, “How are you enjoying the ball?”

Clarke mulls over his tone, carefully polite, before answering. “Perfectly adequately,” she says, and sees the sides of his mouth twitch up.

“Is it what you’d hoped for?” he asks, and she thinks he means it sincerely.

“Not really,” she admits.

“How so?”

“Well, I didn’t expect so many dance partners,” she grins. “A hall filled with so many pretty girls and me, an old crow.” She’d meant it to be teasing, but he sounds surprisingly earnest when he speaks.

“On the contrary; you are by far the most radiant thing in this room.”

Clarke stares up at him, dazed, and is still speechless when the dance ends and he bows out, disappearing into the crowd.

Raven finds her again quickly after that, absolutely grinning like a housecat, and they resume their improvised dancing.

“I always wanted golden hair,” Raven says, tugging at the strands over Clarke’s shoulder. She’s swinging Clarke into a dip when Bellamy comes up to them, feathered mask hanging crooked around his neck. Miller frowns gravely just behind him.

“We have to leave,” he says harshly. “ _Now_.”

“What is it?” Clarke asks as they rush through the crowd, his grip firm on her elbow so she won’t be lost.

“The Witch is here,” he says. “She, uh. We have a history.”

“Ah,” Clarke says. “Let me guess—you wooed her?”

“And then left, yes, and now she’s after me.”

“I say let her have you,” Clarke says crossly as they run down the hall. Raven snatches an obsidian vase from one of the pillars in the hall, and Clarke eyes her curiously.

“What?” Raven snaps, defensive, clutching the vase to her chest. “It looks nice.”

“Bellamy,” Miller warns, “We can’t take the door—she’ll follow the trail back to your house.”

Bellamy curses and stops, yanking Clarke to a stop as well since he still has ahold of her arm. She yanks it roughly from his grip.

“We can take my plane,” Raven offers. “It’s how I got here.”

“Will it hold us?” Miller asks, and Raven shrugs noncommittally.

“Forget holding us,” Bellamy says, “Will the damn thing _fly_?”

“It’s good enough for me, _your highness_ ,” Raven snaps hotly, and Clarke lays a hand on both their chests to calm them.

“Alright,” she says. “It’s not like we have another option, Bellamy. Raven, where’s this plane of yours?”

Raven leads them to the stables, where the other guests had stored their horses and carriages, and in the corner sits an aeroplane made of metal plating welded together, with beams criss crossing to form the wings, and a murderous propeller. It doesn’t look big enough for the four of them, but Clarke imagines if they press uncomfortably tight together, they might manage.

“This is amazing,” Clarke breathes, and it is. She’s never seen anything like it.

Raven tears off her mask and fits on a pair of goggles. “I know,” she smirks. “Now get in; I have to rescue you.”

They fold in one by one, and it is uncomfortable, but the plane manages to stay a little over the tree line all the way back to Arcadia. The ride lasts nearly two hours, but the wind and propellers are too loud to talk over, so they spend it all in silence.

Eventually the charcoal roof of the house comes into view, and Raven shouts over the din, “I’m not sure how smooth this will be!” And that’s all the warning she gives before crashing straight in through the ceiling.

“Solid landing,” Bellamy growls as he pries himself from the mangled belly of the plane. Clarke’s leg is hooked between metal, but he puts his hand on her knee and glares, and she slides out completely. Miller escapes on his own, and Raven, for her part, looks surprisingly pleased for someone who’s just crashed their plane.

“You’re just mad because I got us here without magic,” she smirks.

“Yes,” Bellamy deadpans. “Clearly, your way was the way to go.”

Jasper’s head appears, peeking up over the roof from the second floor balcony. “Uh, welcome back?” he tries, eyeing the wreckage.

Clarke pokes at her ruined dress in dismay. “Don’t worry,” Bellamy says. “I’ll get you a new one.”

Raven pulls the vase from beneath her seat. “It’s not broken,” she says, pleased.

“Excellent priorities,” Bellamy quips, swinging a leg down over the roof to drop onto the balcony. Miller goes next, and they both help Clarke down, because she’s too short to reach. Raven jumps dramatically, after carefully passing the vase to Clarke, and then they all file inside.

“I hope you know you’re paying for my new roof,” Bellamy says.

“You’re a Wizard,” Raven rolls her eyes. “Just—fix it. You know, with your mind.” Bellamy rolls his eyes back.

They can hear Wick’s voice as he rants, getting louder and louder as they approach the main room. “—and let whichever cretin just crashed through my house, know that—” he catches sight of the group, dirty and haggard, and pauses. “What kind of party did you go to?”

“The music was awful and the people were boring—we had to liven things up a bit,” Raven says. Wick eyes her curiously.

“Are you Raven?” Wick asks.

Raven’s eyes narrow at the demon. “Why?”

Wick’s flames go pink at the edges, and Clarke thinks he might be _blushing_ , which is more than a little absurd. “You are,” he declares. “I can tell. You’re amazing.”

“I am,” Raven agrees. “Who the hell are you?”

“Wick,” says Wick, at the same time that Bellamy says “My fire demon.”

Raven eyes Bellamy. “You told your fire demon about me?”

Bellamy huffs. “It’s a long story.”

“I could tell it to you,” Wick offers. “There’s a stool. You can sit. I’ll warm your feet, like Clarke’s.”

Bellamy turns to Clarke, bemused. “You have my fire demon warm your feet?”

“I have old woman feet,” Clarke defends, “And Wick offered!”

At that moment, Lexa chooses to come running in, straight to Clarke, as if checking her for damage. Deciding she’s alright enough, Lexa presses her head against Clarke’s thigh affectionately, before turning towards Raven.

“What,” Raven says, right as Lexa charges. She crashes into Raven’s legs, and while Raven manages to catch herself against the banister, the vase falls from her hands and cracks into a million pieces against the floor.

“ _What_ ,” Raven growls, glaring down at the dog and what’s left of her vase.

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke says, “She’s usually so well-behaved!” Wick makes a smug _harrumph_ noise in disagreement. She ignores him.

“Don’t be so hasty,” Bellamy says, looking down at the pile of vase shards. They follow his gaze, to see the shards are slowly shifting around, as if being moved away by someone, and then a man climbs up out of the dust.

It’s a full-sized man—really quite tall—and he dusts off the sleeves of his jacket as though climbing from a pile of broken stone is completely normal. Lexa looks quite smug.

“What,” Raven whispers, staring up at the man, and it isn’t until he looks up and smiles softly at them, that Clarke knows who he is.

She sucks in a breath. “Prince Wells?”

Prince Wells chuckles at their looks of surprise. “Thank you for releasing me,” he says warmly. “You have no idea how _cramped_ it was in there.”

“Do we get three wishes?” Jasper asks, before Monty elbows him in the ribs.

“I don’t think it works like that, I’m afraid,” the Prince says kindly.

“What happened to you?” Clarke asks. He frowns.

“The Witch happened,” he shrugs. “I don’t remember much of it. One minute, I was on my way to see the Mount Weather Ambassador, and the next, I was a vase. I think I housed a spider, at one point.” Bellamy perks up visibly at this, and Clarke fights the urge to hit him.

“Well I’m the Mount Weather Ambassador,” Raven says. “You can see me now.”

The Prince looks at her, bewildered. “What are you doing in Arcadia?” he asks, and then glances around at the paint-stained walls. “ _Are_ we in Arcadia?”

“We are,” Jasper says.

“Sort of,” Clarke amends, because the house is magic and technically in several different places at once.

“Mostly,” Bellamy declares, and puts an end to it.

“Thanks for the Geography lesson,” Raven says, turning back to the Prince. “Why were you coming to see me?”

“It was about the Princess,” the Prince frowns. “But I can’t really remember—”

He’s interrupted by a heavy pounding at the front door. “Arcadia,” Wick says automatically, sounding almost bored, although Clarke suspects it’s just upset that Raven is giving the Prince her attention.

Jasper goes to open the door, and is nearly flung aside by the guards as they enter. There are only a handful of them, and then a tall, thin woman with graying red hair follows.

And then King Jaha steps inside.

“Damn,” Bellamy mutters, but stands at attention anyway. They all straighten their backs a little, staring wide-eyed at their visitors, but the King has eyes only for his son.

“Father,” the Prince says, pleased. “How did you find me?”

“The ring,” King Jaha gestures to his son’s hand, and the glowing ring on his middle finger. “You still wear it—it just came back to life, and showed us the way.”

The Prince rubbed at his glowing ring absently, and then waved a hand around the room. “These people found me, and broke the Witch’s curse. They saved me.”

“To be fair, it was on accident,” Wick points out. “They’re not heroes, or anything.”

“I am absolutely a hero,” Raven says. “Hey, Abby.”

The thin red haired woman smiles softly at her. “I should have known you’d have something to do with this.” Raven shrugs as if to say, _what can you do?_

“You will all be compensated accordingly,” the King decides, and several strange and magical things have happened to Clarke at this point, but this is the first time she thinks, _this isn’t real; I am dreaming_.

“What about the Witch?” she wonders aloud, and then wishes she hadn’t as all eyes turn towards her.

But it’s the thin woman who stares the hardest, before whispering “Clara Kell?”

Clarke blinks at her. “I’m sorry,” she says, “You must be confused. My name is Clarke.”

“Clara Kell,” Bellamy muses. “Clarke. There’s not much difference between the two, is there?”

Clarke turns to him incredulously. “I’m a housekeeper,” she snaps. “Not some long-lost, foreign Princess. Don’t give her false hope.”

“You do sort of look like her,” Raven says. “Gold hair, blue eyes. Almost exactly how everyone thought she’d look.”

“Lots of people have gold hair,” Clarke argues. “And blue eyes are simple genetics.”

“It’s you,” the woman says sternly. “I know my daughter.”

“Well I have a mother,” Clarke says, “And it’s not you.” It can’t be. Clarke has met her quota for strange, magical happenings; she can’t be a Princess too—that’s not how the world works.

“Arcadia door,” Wick chirps, just before the knock.

“Show off,” Bellamy teases, and goes to open the door.

“ _There_ you are,” Monroe says, striding over to Clarke as though she’s walked through this room a hundred times before. “And Maya had the nerve to say you were getting _worse_ —you look positively eighteen.”

“She _was_ getting worse,” Maya argues, following after. She gives Jasper a shy smile, and he flushes. Monty looks thrilled.

“By all means,” Bellamy drones, “Please, come in.”

Monroe suddenly glances around, as if realizing for the first time that they aren’t alone in the room. She lingers on the King and his son before turning to Clarke conspiratorially. “Are you leaving the Wizard for the Prince? Because if so, I completely approve.”

“I’m not leaving anyone,” Clarke says adamantly.

“No one’s going to make you leave,” Bellamy says gently, coming to stand closer than is entirely appropriate. He lays a hand on her shoulder and she leans into the touch. “But it wouldn’t hurt to know the truth, and finding out is easy enough.”

“Finding out what?” Monroe demands, staring harshly at the Wizard. She still hasn’t forgotten the heart eating rumors, and now that her sister is young again, she’s clearly on guard.

“Whether or not Clarke’s the lost Mount Weather Princess,” Raven explains cheerily.

Monroe and Maya eye their sister thoughtfully. “Well,” Monroe says, “You are adopted.”

“I’m _what_?” Clarke asks, and Monroe has the nerve to look sheepish.

“I thought you knew,” she apologizes, sharing a glance with Maya. “Clarke, think about it; my birthday is only five months after yours. It’s the only explanation.”

“And you always looked so different,” Maya adds. “Light hair, light eyes. They called you their sun child, because they said you just fell from the sky.”

“That’s just a story,” Clarke argues, but her voice has lost its heat. The more she thinks about it—faint memories of running through large halls, and decadent chocolate cake her parents could never have afforded—the more it makes sense. Those glimpses weren’t from going to work with her father one day, or sneaking dessert at some party; they were from when she was a Princess.

“My head hurts,” she declares. “I need some air.”

She goes to the door, switching the dial to the seaside village, and then opens it. Standing just in the doorway, hand poised to knock, is Bellamy’s date—the demure brunette. Clarke scowls, but the girl just smiles sweetly, glancing behind her at the crowd inside.

“Oh good,” the girl says. “You’re all together—that will make this _much_ simpler.” She looks back to Clarke. “I suppose I should thank you, binder, for bringing everyone close.” And then her clear skin and dark braid melt away to reveal the Witch.

Maya faints into Monroe’s arms, while the Prince and the King look on, distressed. “I look forward to meeting with you, Belldragon,” the Witch calls, grabbing hold of Clarke, digging her pointy fingers into her shoulders, pulling her outside. Bellamy sprints, reaching for them, just as the house dissolves into air.

“Oh good,” the fire demon deadpans, “Company. Fantastic.” It sits in a hearth, just like Wick, and stares disinterestedly at Clarke.

Clarke is tied to a chair with a million tight little knots made of magic. The Witch’s house is a lot like Bellamy’s house, but colder, with a constant draft. She thinks the demon probably does it on purpose.

“Murphy,” the Witch ordered, “Keep an eye on her,” and then she disappeared into the house. Clarke counted the seconds at first, but soon lost her place and gave up. She’s pretty sure it’s been a few hours.

She can’t smell the sea salt. Mostly, everything smells like damp wood.

“I’m Clarke,” she tries, glancing at the demon, but it looks as impassive as ever.

“Good for you,” it says. Clarke sighs.

 _Might as well get comfortable waiting to be rescued_ , she decides, trying to slide down in her chair. She can’t remember when she last slept, and she’s exhausted.

“Did you ever steal a Princess?” Clarke asks the demon wearily.

“Oh yes,” it says. “I go about stealing Princesses all the time. Princes too. I have a collection.”

She can’t really tell if it’s serious or not.

Clarke isn’t really sure what to expect out of her rescue, but Bellamy storming into the room, looking angry and run ragged, isn’t it. She’d sort of expected Raven to crash in with a new plane, or maybe even the King’s guards, but it’s just Bellamy and he seems to be alone, and she’s okay with that.

“No,” Murphy says, growing larger and bluer, spitting sparks so Bellamy can’t get close. “You can’t have it!”

Bellamy pays the demon no mind, instead working on unknotting the invisible ropes around Clarke, massaging her skin where they’d bound, until the redness fades. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Clarke says. “Where are the others?”

“I don’t know,” Bellamy frowns down at her as she stands on shaky, pins and needles legs. “I had to go save my fool of a housekeeper.” Clarke scowls.

“Well maybe you should think of that before you try to romance a Witch— _again_! Honestly, Bellamy—”

“I knew she was the Witch,” Bellamy says breezily. The room is getting warmer as Murphy grows in size and spitefulness, but neither of them much care. “I was conning her, letting her think she had me, and then _you_ actually go and get had!” He shakes his hair, and she realizes this is the most unkempt she’s ever seen him. His hair is loose in knotted curls, he hasn’t shaven or enchanted his skin, so she can see his freckles. His clothes are stained with coal dust and swamp mud and sweat. There’s a smudge of dirt on his jawline.

She’s quite sure he loves her.

Clarke turns to the fire demon abruptly. “Stop that,” she chides. “Let go of that poor girl’s heart,” she demands, and all at once the demon gives a low hiss and shrinks down to a flicker, revealing a lump of hot coal. “Is that it?” she asks, dubious.

“That’s what’s left of it,” Bellamy nods, staring at Clarke in awe. “I knew you could handle anything.”

“I can,” she agrees, because she’s broken at least a handful of curses by now, so she’s feeling a little confident. “Where’s the Witch?”

“Probably collapsed somewhere,” Bellamy muses. “Our fire demons are tied to us, so when they go out, we die. Murphy is incredibly weak now, which means she is too.”

Clarke plucks the coal from the hearth, and turns towards where she’d seen the Witch disappear to, Bellamy at her heels.

The girl—woman, now, nearly the same age as Clarke’s Queen mother—is lying unconscious on the carpet in the next room. Clarke kneels and rolls her over on her back, and then puts the coal up near her mouth.

She says, “Hold together, inside her, and work,” and then pushes the coal against the woman’s chest until it sinks inside. She holds her breath until she feels the Witch’s pulse begin to strengthen. “Let’s go,” she tells Bellamy. “She’ll wake up, and be fine. Let’s check on our friends.”

“Your friends,” Bellamy corrects. “I still prefer spiders.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Clarke says fondly.

“Yes,” Bellamy agrees, and takes her hand in his.

When they arrive back at the house, not very much has changed. The ceiling is still gaping, with Raven’s ruined plane in the rafters. Shards of obsidian sit in a pile on the floor. Maya sits with Monroe and Jasper and Monty on the stairs. Lexa is nowhere to be seen, but a strange girl Clarke does not know sits with her head in Monroe’s lap, and Clarke thinks her eyes look familiar.

Raven sits with the Prince and Miller, while the Abby, the King and his guards stand awkwardly towards the kitchen. A few of them seem to have discovered Jasper’s stash of scones, and are nibbling at some.

Clarke strides directly to Wick and says, “Do you still want me to break your contract?”

Wick glances from her to Bellamy. “Yours is already broken,” he points out. “What would you get out of it?”

Clarke glances up at Bellamy. “His heart,” she says, and then bites her lip because _that’s_ awfully presumptive. “I think.”

But Bellamy is grinning so widely she fears his face might split. “My heart,” he agrees, and turns to Wick expectantly.

“See? I knew it,” Wick says happily. “Even humans want others’ hearts. Yes, alright, break the contract.”

Clarke nods and releases Bellamy’s hand reluctantly, while the others gather loosely around to watch. She tries not to feel nervous.

“Unhand Bellamy’s heart,” she says sternly, and Wick shivers a little, and gasps, and then peels away from a coal identical to the Witch’s. She scoops it up, and it’s a little uncomfortably hot but she can bear it, and turns to Bellamy.

“Would you prefer a countdown?” she asks.

“Sure,” he grins.

“Alright,” Clarke agrees. “Three, two—” she slams the coal into his chest, saying “Hold together and _work_ , damn it!”

Bellamy staggers a bit, and Wick screams “FREEDOM!” and leaps up through the chimney and into the world. Miller and the Prince reach out to help steady the Wizard, and when he finally gathers his bearings, he turns a glare on Clarke.

“What happened to the countdown?” he demands.

Clarke shrugs; he’s alive, and he has his heart, and she’s pretty pleased with how everything has turned out. “That was mostly to distract you.”

“I knew you were a binder,” Miller says, staring at Clarke, impressed. “Bringing things, and people, together, but. I had no idea you could unbind, as well.”

“Of course she can,” Bellamy says. “Clarke never does anything halfway.”

“So, you’re a Princess now?” Monroe asks, standing up from the stairs. The girl in her lap shifts so she can move.

“If I am,” Clarke says slowly, catching Abby’s eye, “Then so are you and Maya.”

Monroe grins wickedly, and curls her arm around the strange, intense girl beside her. “This is Lexa,” she says, and Clarke gapes.

“ _My_ Lexa?” she asks, and Lexa smirks.

“No,” Monroe frowns. “My Lexa.”

She shakes Clarke’s hands, and then Bellamy’s, and then Jasper’s, though he’s deeply uncomfortable because apparently the dog saw him in the bath once. “I am the Royal Wizard,” she explains. “I went looking for the Prince, but the Witch caught me, and turned me into a dog. Monroe took me in,” she looks at her fondly, and Clarke smiles.

The Prince comes up to her next. “So, apparently we were betrothed as infants,” he says wryly, and she can’t help but laugh because the idea of _that_ —her being a Princess, and engaged to a Prince—is something she may never be used to.

“Something tells me,” the Prince continues, flicking his eyes over to Bellamy, who’s glaring holes in his royal skull as they speak, “That won’t be happening.”

“No,” Clarke agrees. “But not just because of that—I don’t think I’m ready to be somebody’s wife, let alone _queen_ , yet.” The Prince nods kindly, and Clarke is filled with a sudden affection for him. “I would like to know you though,” she adds. “As a friend?”

Prince Wells smiles warmly. “I’d like that,” he agrees.

“Like what?” Bellamy asks, coming up to stand a little closer to her than absolutely necessary. Clarke looks up at him, bemused.

“We’ve agreed to be friends,” the Prince says happily. “I would like to extend that invitation to you as well, of course,” he says.

“Of course,” Bellamy agrees, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Bellamy doesn’t have friends,” she tells the Prince. “He has spiders.”

The Prince nods, too polite to seem confused, and turns back towards Raven. Clarke shoots Bellamy a smirk. “And you called _me_ jealous,” she teases.

Bellamy shrugs and leans down so his chin is resting on Clarke’s shoulder. “I’m exhausted,” he declares. “I think we should escape when no one’s looking, and take a nap upstairs.”

“It’s your house,” Clarke points out. “You could just ask them to leave.”

“But _my_ way, we don’t have to talk to them,” he argues.

“Okay,” Clarke says. “Any other bright ideas for our immediate future?”

“I’m not sure about _immediate_ future,” he muses. “But I think we should probably have our happily ever after. Together.”

“Hmm,” Clarke agrees.

“It should be hair-raising,” Bellamy grins wickedly, and she’s glad he hasn’t changed so much, now that he has a heart. He’s still her Bellamy. She reaches up to run a hand through his messy curls.

“I prefer this Bellamy,” she decides. “I like your freckles.”

He grins and tugs at her hair. “Well I’m not sure I prefer this Clarke,” he says. “I liked your wrinkles. And your big nose.”

Clarke scoffs. Jasper begins to tug on Bellamy’s sleeve excitedly, but the Wizard just bats his hand away. “We can go anywhere, you know,” he tells Clarke.

“Within reason,” she amends, watching as Jasper continues to tug on his sleeve.

“I’ve never understood why everyone puts value on reason,” he muses, still ignoring his apprentice. Finally, he turns and snaps, “ _What_?”

“Wick’s back,” Jasper grins, pointing to the hearth. They turn and sure enough, there’s Wick, glowing happily orange in his place in the hearth.

“You didn’t need to come back,” Bellamy says, but he’s smiling, and tugging Clarke over to the demon.

“I know,” Wick says, eyes flicking over to Raven and back. “I’ll be okay as long as I can come and go. Plus I kind of missed you guys,” he says cheekily. “And it looks like it’s going to rain.”

 


End file.
